8 Minutes Sanctuary
by Electricity Today
Summary: Three years after the events in Afghanistan, Tony finds that he's still a prisoner, holding himself captive from taunting memories and regrets. He had a friend with him back then, a friend who he had to leave behind. Now he must work with his adoring assistant Peter and suspicious friend Rhodey in order to bring the MIA back home.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: I am looking for a better description for 8 Minutes Sanctuary. I had trouble coming up with one on my own, so I'm turning to you readers for an assist! If you have an idea for a story summary (382 characters or less), please make sure to leave it in a review! If your description is used, I promise I will make sure to credit you. Thank you and read on!**

 **Author's Note II: Edited Version.**

* * *

 **Prologue**

In approximately five billion years, the hydrogen within the Sun's core will dissipate. By this stage in its life, the Sun would have already evolved into a spacious, yet weak, red giant. Once the hydrogen runs out, there will be nothing left to burn for nuclear fusion, so the Sun will die. The emitted poisonous gases will take eight minutes to reach Earth.

Tony knew this systematically.

The science was something he had to learn. He didn't already know that nuclear fusion had both exothermic and endothermic reactions. Neither did he know that the burning point of hydrogen was 932° Fahrenheit. He was not even aware of the fact that scientists had not yet found explanations for sunspots.

He hadn't known anything, really. He had been oblivious.

That was, however, until the day when he figured it all out.

He had finished the Mark. It was against the stone wall; just sitting there. But Tony couldn't sit, he continuously paced up and down the cave, ready, aching, for the right moment to escape. The previous night he had done all the calculations, finished all the math, revised each idea; he had known the exact second to strike.

But that day, he couldn't remember.

 _Alright_ , he had said to no one; he was alone, _I'll go when I catch my breath._

But it was difficult to breath. Smoke from cigars fogged up the condensed air. The magnet in his chest made his lungs contract. The area where the metal carved the skin ached and burned. His feet were blistered and boiling. His fingernails hurt from being bitten too short.

He waited until his breathing evened out.

He started to recall fragments of his plan now that his gasps had subsided. He knew he had the potential to kill Yinsen if he were in the suit. And he knew that the best time to strike was as soon as the villain stepped out of his jeep. Yinsen would have no guards and no weapons; it would be the perfect moment.

Over the hum of the magnet in his chest, Tony listened at the speeding tread of rubber against dirt. From what he could hear, the jeep was traveling much faster than normal. He needed to act fast, very fast, or else he will miss the perfect shot.

He lurched for the suit against the wall. He tried and tried to haul it up from its seated position. But the Mark I would not budge. Now frantic, he grabbed it from under its arms and heaved, he heaved several times, and pulled and _pulled_ until his veins began to bulge.

Tony's arms hurt. They were sore from tireless constructing, so pulling at the machine made it feel like his arms would wrench out from their sockets. And he was tired, so very tired. He couldn't lift it. But he kept heaving and yanking to the point when he could no longer feel his arms. His vision swam, and everything felt fuzzy.

That's when the jeep pulled up outside the cave. Tony knew he had missed his chance. But in that moment, he was completely oblivious to what would happen next.

* * *

"Tony?"

He spun around in his office chair, "What's up, Pussycat?"

Pepper Potts stood there, two cups of coffee in one hand and a balancing stack of papers in the other. She smiled at him as she placed down one of the coffee mugs, "I think Starbucks will sue if you ask for whiskey inside your coffee again. They are almost completely fed up with you, Mr. Stark."

"They don't have the money to sue me," Tony smiled, downing half the cup's contents in one gulp. He smirked as he looked to the other cup, "You brought me two? I love you."

"No, this one's for me," Pepper said as she filed through her paper mountain, pulling out certain packets and leaving others in place. Tony watched her concentrated eyes skim through the papers once more as she set them down on the desk.

"You need to confirm the calculating department's demands for next season's supplies to import. The branch in Singapore is requesting outsourcing to Malaysia, again. Also, take a look at Mrs. Hansen's ask for maternity leave."

Tony glanced at the papers. He frowned, "Casey Hansen or Bobbie Hansen?"

"Michelle Hansen."

"She's pregnant?"

"Yes. She's been pregnant for the last seven months."

"I thought she was lesbian."

"She and her wife used a surrogate father," Pepper said thoughtfully.

"Since when is it my responsibility to permit mommy time?"

"That's why you're looking at it, her boss won't let her off," she skimmed over her clipboard one last time, sipping her coffee. All at once, she jerked the cup away and exclaimed, " _Oh_!"

"Did Pepper burn herself?" Tony mused.

The assistant frowned teasingly, "As unfortunate as it must be to you, no. I was just looking over your schedule when I noticed that you have a 13:30 meeting with Lieutenant James Rhodes. It's labeled here as 'personal,'" Pepper smiled in her teasing sort of way, "Did you _really_ invite James to Stark Tower for fun?"

"Pepper, we're planning on playing pool. And pool is not fun. It's a challenging and strategic game."

"You've never played before."

"I'm a quick learner."

"But on a Tuesday? Your most busy day of the week?"

"We have a very important topic to discuss," Tony huffed. Little did she know, he wasn't lying.

"Uh-huh. Sure," Pepper said as she gathered her things, "I'll leave you to it."

"Yes, go! Begone!" Tony whined, waving her away.

The clicking of her heels against the tile stopped as she paused in the doorway, looking back at him, "Oh, and Tony?"

"Yes ma'am?"

"I'm off for the rest of the month, remember?" she was trying to keep her voice levelled, clear of pity and concern.

Pepper didn't mean to pity him. She's sure that she probably has in the past, but she never liked making him feel weaker than her (though it was true, as far as she knew.) She was aware that Tony had difficulty in managing himself. He never ate correctly, slept correctly, or even dressed correctly.

She mostly counted these imperfections as something caused by his rugged personality. But she has noticed, of course, the spiked increase of his self-destructive activities within the past three years. The three years, she might add, since he's returned from Afghanistan.

Tony had never spoken of what had happened back in Afghanistan. Since he came back, Tony had kept his mouth sealed shut. The only thing he admitted to had something to do with a kind man with blue eyes; irrelevant information was most likely just made up by Tony's feverous imagination. Though he never spoke, Pepper could assume what happened to him based on his scars and behaviors. She didn't like what her imagination had to offer.

Despite her apprehension, she was undoubtedly aware of how strong Tony had become because of his experiences. She knew for certain that he was capable of taking care of himself, even though he struggled. The only problem was that Tony didn't know it.

Pepper didn't want to leave him by himself. They were dear friends; she knew how he would behave. But she was forced to retreat to her childhood home on a familial matter. Her elderly parents were falling behind on mortgages and were in desperate need of help. Pepper's loyalty to her family surpassed that of Tony's.

Of course she loved him, she really did. But her parents needed her, and Tony was fine as of now.

"What?"

Pepper winced, "It's only for a month."

"Yeah, but, a whole month?"

"You'll be fine, Tony," Pepper promised.

"But… who will bring me coffee?"

Pepper bit her tongue, "Do you remember when I trained that college student on personal assistance?"

"I recall the _concept_ ," Tony drawled dumbly.

"Well, his name is Peter Parker and he will be filling in for me, starting tomorrow."

Tony smacked his forehead on his desk, "I don't wanna babysit."

"I know. Babysitting will be Mr. Parker's job," Pepper forced a smile as she opened the door, "Good luck, Tony."

"Get lost, ex-best friend," Tony grumbled, stirring the coffee and whiskey around in his mug. The coffee grounds had sunk to the bottom and the whiskey had gone lukewarm. Tony downed it anyway.

* * *

"Wanna know a secret?"

"Sure."

"First time I was invited to play pool, I dressed in swim trunks and goggles," Tony said as he watched Rhodey score more points.

"I'm not surprised. When the governor asked you to play mini-golf, you brought a five-centimeter club," Rhodey said, smirking as another striped ball fell into a hole.

"Hey, that was an improvement!" Tony defended, "The _first_ time I was told to bring a golf-club, I borrowed my middle school's literal Golf Club."

"Man, who joins a club for _golf_?" Rhodey chuckled, shaking his head, "'sides you, I mean."

"I was never in a golf club! I was in Junior Robotics, Financial Literacy, Tae-Kwon-Do, Quidditch Masters, Thundercat Fanboys, and the Rubix Solvers!"

"I don't doubt it for a second. Except maybe the Financial Literacy one."

Tony hit a ball into the goal, "I did it!"

"No you didn't."

"Yes I did! See look-"

"That's the white ball."

"Was I not supposed to-"

"-Look, Tones. What is this about? You ain't never invited me for pool before. What bullcrap do you need from me this time?" Rhodey asked, arms crossed.

Tony's spine straightened. Not finding the right words to say, Tony let his gaze flicker from Rhodey's left and right eyes; both were equally blank.

"Don't tell me this is about..." Rhodey began.

"Yeah," Tony said, "Him."

"Who's 'him?'"

"I told you. Over the phone last night."

"You were drunk over the phone last night."

"Correction, I was sober. That's why I was _acting_ high."

"That's not what-" Rhoder took in a sharp breath through his nose, "Last night, you said something about finding somebody. From Afghanistan."

"Yeah. Thought you could-"

"If I could help you find _him_?"

"That's right."

Rhodey's frown furrowed. He placed his hands on his hips, and looked upwards as he thought aloud, "What in Sam's Name makes you think that I would be able to help you?"

"His coat."

"Pardon me?"

"He was wearing a US military jacket. Army."

Rhodey's jaw dropped, "He's with the army?"

Tony nodded, solemnly. He hugged the pool pole against his chest.

The lieutenant was glaring, "He's with the _army_? You waited three years to tell me that _crucial detail?"_

Tony was silent.

"Why, Tony? Why did you not tell me before?" he demanded.

"His army jacket…"

 _"Yes. Why did you not tell me before?"_

"I didn't want to leave him there," Tony breathed, "I-I didn't want.. they-they wanted me to remember, but I didn't want to. I wanted to forget.. His army jacket.. He knew, he was the one who told me first, about the Sun, he did. So, yeah, so that's the thing, I guess..."

Rhodey frowned, no longer out of anger, but out of remorse. It was clear he was pressuring him too much. It was even more clear that he wouldn't get anything solid out of Tony, at least not for a while.

"Okay, Tony. Okay," Rhodey breathed, "I'll come back tomorrow with my computer. We can look into it then. For now, let's get back to pool."

"Pepper's junior assistant starts tomorrow," Tony said robotically.

"She... or he can help us, too," Rhodey said, unsure if that was the right answer.

Tony's face was blank, "Rhodey?"

"Yeah, buddy?"

"Which balls do I put in which holes?"

" _Never_ ever word a question about pool like that again."


	2. Peter's First Day

**Peter's First Day**

Yinsen wasn't the only one who came out of the jeep that day. He had been surrounded by his fawning, mindless soldiers. With them, they held a body.

But that fact had been unknown to Tony at that time. The only thing he could concentrate on was protecting the Mark from being seen. Within the few second window of time he had, he covered the machine with a tarp. He had proceeded to add scrap metal to the sight, labelling it as a junk-pile.

Yinsen and his men had not been remotely suspicious. They weren't even interested. They were instead occupied with the mangled body of a young soldier.

Tony remembered how aghast he had been when he saw the American army uniform bloody and ripped. He distinctly remembered how his throat had closed up and choked him. He remembered standing completely still, unable to move, paralyzed in fear.

One of the men had kicked the soldier in the stomach. The soldier coughed up blood. Yinsen gave an order, and he was dragged across the cave floor. The soldier was hurled onto the false scrap pit, crashing into lumps of metal and scraps. He was grimacing.

Tony had said something, something unplanned, something sudden, something to stop them. He was slapped across the face.

They were advancing in on the both of them. Tony stood in anxiety; if they came any closer, they could get to him, they could discover the Mark I, they could hurt the soldier again. But Yinsen told them something-something Tony couldn't understand- and the men stopped.

He had been left alone with the soldier.

The soldier opened his eyes. His eyes were blue. He lifted his head and gazed around.

Tony had watched in curious interest.

The soldier found his gaze, and said something.

Tony had said something, too.

 _Are you alone?_ the soldier then asked.

 _Yes._

 _Not for much longer._

* * *

"I-I'm sorry, Mr. Stark, but you want me to do _what?"_

The kid's name was Peter. He was skinny, short, and not Pepper. Any assistant who is a Not-Pepper tends to annoy Tony to an unimaginable extent. Peter hadn't been here for more than five minutes, and he's already bothered him to the point where Tony developed a migraine.

"I _said_ I want a coffee with one shot whiskey, two shots tequila, and whipped cream with a cherry on top."

"So… you want it cold?" Peter asked. He wore on him his college backpack, even though he was additionally wearing nice dress clothes. Either he didn't care about his expensive button-down shirt or he was too dumb to care about it gaining wrinkles; plausibly both.

"I want the _alcohol_ cold but the coffee hot," Tony said through gritted teeth as he marched down the hall. Peter was hovering over him like a clueless child, switching from peering over Tony's right shoulder, to his left, and back again. He was scribbling notes down on his clipboard in small, cursive handwriting. At this point, Tony wouldn't be surprised if the kid dotted hearts over all the i's and j's.

"Okay, Mr. Stark, I'll have someone get that for you," Peter mumbled politely.

Tony paused in his tracks, huffing, "Why can't _you_ get it?"

The kid blushed, "I-I'm underage, I can't bring it to you."

"Look, underoos, I'll pay your bail if you go to jail. Just get me my _coffee._ Can't you see I'm exhausted?"

Tony wasn't exaggerating: he was dead on his feet on the verge of collapsing. He hadn't gone to sleep because had been awake all night studying. Rhodey had said that he would research what he could on the soldier, so Tony decided it was best that he studied too. So Tony spent all night watching videos of experts explaining how to play pool with an open textbook next to him. He didn't even know what kind of textbook it was, it could have been his first puberty textbook for all he knew.

"Yes sir, I'll get it right now," Peter nodded and hurried off, speed-walking with his head down.

Tony squinted his face in annoyance as he took a right down the hall. He came upon the silver door to the room he had booked, he let himself in without knocking.

"Here she is, Miss America," hummed Tony as he took a seat and propped his feet up on the table. Rhodey was seated across from him, looking at two computer screens and taking notes.

"Good afternoon, Tony."

"I just woke up."

"Yes. In the afternoon. Is the sun not bright enough for you?"

"The Sun is about 93,000 lumens per square foot, which makes it approximately 400,000 times brighter than a full moon," Tony said.

Rhodey blinked, "Yeah."

There was a whisplike knock on the door before it opened, revealing the shy little assistant with a tray of beverages.

"Okay, Mr. Stark your coffee and other drinks are all here," he said as he placed the tray on the table.

"Sorry it took so long. I got a little lost," he said, laughing gently.

Tony's eyes widened in disbelief, "You _separated_ them?"

On the tray, each cup contained a different substance. The coffee was in a mug while each other drink was in a glass. The whipped cream and cherry were in a dessert bowl with a spoon. Tony was horrified.

Rhodey chuckled into his hand and patted Peter on the back. Peter smiled back, but was incredibly confused.

"Alright you two," Rhodey said, "It's about time y'all got to work."

"What are we doing, Lieutenant Rhodes?" Peter asked, excitement in his eyes.

"Looking for…" his eyes glanced up to Tony. He was occupied in eating the whipped cream, "a lost friend."

"A lost friend? Like, someone you haven't seen in awhile, or like a missing person?"

"Unfortunately, that is unknown to us as of now. And kid," Rhodey smiled, "Just call me James."

Peter smiled back, "It's awesome-I mean, a pleasure, Mr. James."

Rhodey chuckled again, laughing with the kid. He liked Peter. The kid had already managed to get on Tony's nerves; and Rhodey loved it. Peter seemed smart, too. And Rhodey definitely needed someone smart right about now.

He had been given very limited information on Tony's mystery soldier. All Rhodey knew was that his eyes were blue and he was from New York. That was incredibly limited and the information hadn't helped Rhodey much at all.

His frown returned as he looked to and from the computer screens.

On one was a list of POWs who have been missing for the past three years. Sadly, there were a _lot_ of them.

On the other screen laid Rhodey's contacts within the military who might be able to help. For the past hour, he had been obsessively emailing all the trustworthy officials. He had barely any responses.

"Can I get you anything, Mr. James? Coffee?" Peter asked.

Rhodey distractedly waved his hand, "No, no, I'm fine."

Peter peeked over Rhodey's shoulder, curiously looking at the screens. He pouted his lip, thinking, "You know, when I'm trying to remember lessons for college, I go to the library."

"Come again?"

"I make my my surroundings look like the place where I learned the lesson. I change the environment so I can remember."

"That… should work," Rhodey said, "But let's just say that the environment where we last saw this guy wasn't the prettiest. It wouldn't be the best place to recreate."

Peter hung his head, "I'm sorry, Mr. James, I was just trying to help-"

"-I know that, kid, I know that," Rhodey said, he lightly pointed to Tony, who was impatiently waiting for the last speck of whiskey to drop from the shot glass' rim, "Your boss 'as been through a lot, you know. Don't let his... ambiguous-ness get you down."

Peter clutched the straps of his backpack, "Oh geez. I-I didn't say anything insensitive, did I? Oh geez, I'm sorry."

"Stop saying sorry. It's your first day on the job for Chrissake!"

Peter smiled in gratitude, "Thanks, Mr. James."

Rhodey couldn't suppress smiling, too, this kid _was_ annoying.

"Child, quit calling me 'Mister.' As of now, my name is _James._ J-A-M-E-S. You gon' remember that, ain't you?"

"Yes sir, like _James and the Giant Peach._ That'll be easy to remember."

Rhodey pointed a finger at the kid, "Tones, you hired yourself a winner right here!"

Tony, who was nursing the cherry puffed up inside his cheek like a squirrel, pouted, "Pepper hired him."

"Well she's got eyes for people. Remind me to thank her."

Tony huffed and swallowed his cherry.

Cherries require six to ten hours of sunlight a day in order to become sweet. If the cherries are sour, they are called pie cherries. But Tony knew better. His cherry was a maraschino cherry, something produced on a farm but then artificially preserved and inorganically sweetened in order to become a small ice cream topping. Maraschino cherries don't require sunlight.

Do people require sunlight?

Tony took his second shot of tequila and proceeded to stand up. He walked over to Rhodey's computer screens and peered into them, "Did you find anything?""A little bit," Rhodey said, "There's not a lot of information here. You could look at all these names of POWs, but that would be time consuming."

"I have time."

"Then go wild," Rhodey said, retreating to the other screen with his emails.

Tony read through the screen, groaning. Unfortunately, the list was in chronological order by date of disappearance, rather than alphabetical by last name. Tony had no idea _when_ his soldier had-

Holy bizarre. There were so many. So many prisoners of war. So many people who have been in captivity away from home. So many people who had been afraid. So many people who had been just like him.

There were _so many._ It's like they were mocking him.

He briefly glanced at Rhodey and the kid, to see if they were staring at him; they weren't. Rhodey was typing away at his computer while Peter flipped between pages of his clipboard.

Tony bit his lip to regain his composure. He rolled his shoulders back. He clicked on the mouse and began to scroll down the names again.

They remained like that for hours: Rhodey frustratedly typing and clicking, Peter wavering around without much to do besides bring in more shots, and Tony staring cluelessly at the names.

After a while, Tony had forgotten what he was looking for. He had fallen into a routine of scrolling down after every five names. He watched the tiny words flicker up like insignificant fireflies, little images with no meaning.

Eventually, he blinked. His eyes really hurt.

"Not-Pepper!" he called.

The kid just sat there, scribbling notes on his clipboard.

"Not-Pepper," Tony repeated.

The junior assistant looked up and glanced around, "Mr. Stark, are you talking to me?"

"Yes."

"My name is-" he paused, "What is it you need?"

"Bring me my _Offspring_ album CD. It's called _Smash_. It's in my office."

The kid blinked.

"Don't tell me you're too young to know what a CD is."

"No, Mr. Stark. I know, I know," he got up and left.

Rhodey remained indifferent, angrily responding to an email, "Tones."

"Yeah?""I know how you are when you talk about this guy. But there's just… no info. People are trying to help, really they are. They need more context," Rhodey was almost sad to say it, "I need you to tell me more, dude."

Tony shrugged.

"Tony. Had you told me three years ago, the man woulda already been found by now. The delay is all on you; do you realize that? So I need you to tell me more."

"I told him I wouldn't."

"You wouldn't… what?"

"I told him I wouldn't tell."

"Tony-"

"Rhodey."

The anger in the lieutenant's gaze was undeniably inevitable, "We will talk about this later. Keep reading your damn names."

* * *

Peter had tried to memorize Stark Industries' map the day he had received it from Ms. Potts. Not only did he want to impress the kind (and also very pretty) ginger woman who gave it to him, but he also wanted to be a good junior secretary. Ms. Potts had trained and hired him for a reason; so Peter was not planning on letting her down.

But, of course, he didn't memorize the map entirely. Maybe like 75% memorized it.

So he had to check his map three times to make sure he was at the right office door. Peter unlocked it with hesitance, examining the whole room before stepping in. In the corner laid a rack of CDs ranging from the Grunge Era to _Woodstock_ to artists like _Moby_.

Obviously, Peter was oblivious to the content within the CDs. He had never before listen to any of this music. But he didn't let that stop him from picking up the case with a burning skeleton on the cover. He didn't know what _The Offspring_ sounded like, but he could guess that it wasn't his style.

Peter tapped on the plastic awhile, procrastinating so that he could look around his boss' office. It had the potential to be vast and spacious, but was cluttered with scrap metal, posters, and man-cave junk. There was even a mini bar against the South wall.

Peter sighed, "I wish I'd come here for the drinks, I woulda saved a whole ten minutes of walking."

In his self-pity, he slumped down on a barstool, lying his face against the cool surface of the table. Maybe he should grab his boss a drink while he's here, to apologize for taking so long. Having made up his mind, Peter climbed over the table to the bartender's corner and then stood on the tips of his toes so he could look amongst the shelves of drinks and glasses.

That's when he spotted something out of place. In between two glasses, something was shining. It was small and silvery, but Peter couldn't deter its shape. It just seemed so… _wrong_ in its place. It didn't belong in between the glasses.

Peter stepped on the tips of his toes, stretching his arm to its extent, scrambling for the object. He felt metal. A chill soared from his fingertips to his spine and shook him. He fit his fingers around the metal and pulled it down, clutching it to his chest.

Suddenly, a vision.

It was hot and dusty, he could barely see. He found that he couldn't move either, not fully. He could move his head, though. He lifted it up and peered around. Everything was murky.

There was a person, an American, watching him. He seemed afraid. He was hunched over like an animal; it frightened him.

Peter blinked. He unfolded his hands to reveal a necklace of sorts. A silver ball-chain necklace with two rectangular metal charms. Upon further inspection, Peter realized that he was holding dog tags.

His uncle Ben used to wear dog tags in the Navy, a long, _long,_ time ago. But now he kept them as a prized possession in a glass case.

Peter smiled, cradling the dog tags. He hadn't known that Mr. Stark had served. But now, he felt an unique attachment to his boss. Military families click with military people. That's just life.

He put the tags on the plastic CD case like cuisine on a silver platter.

Mr. Stark will be thoroughly impressed.

Hopefully.

Mr. Stark with hopefully be thoroughly impressed.

Peter may or may not have attempted a happy-dance on his way back to the booked room.

"Mr. Stark? I have your CD," Peter chirped as he opened the door. He found a stereo on a nearby coffee table and inserted the disc. After pressing "play," a deep, smooth voice came humming through the speakers.

Tony gave the kid a thumbs-up in thanks. He didn't look Peter in the eye, however. He and Rhodey were in the middle of bickering.

Peter stood there a little awkwardly, "Excuse me, I also found your-"

"Will you stop yelling at me? I told you, I just can't-I'm not-"

"Tony," Rhodey snarled, "I am _not_ yelling at you. I'm not even mad at you! I am simply asking for a little reassurance-"

"You never asked! You demanded! There's a difference!"  
"Stop throwing a fuss and listen to me for just one minute-"

"Rhodey, this isn't-"

"Isn't about my opinion, I understand that, I-"

"No, you don't understand. You want to force this on me! I can't believe-"

"C'mon. You're being ridiculous."

" _I'm_ being ridiculous?"

"Where did your _brilliant_ mind disappear off to?" Rhodey accused.

Tony stilled, "Where did your loyalty go?"

Rhodey opened his mouth. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the junior assistant hovering in his place nervously. He put his shaking fist down to his side and let a long breath escape him, "We'll pick this up later, Tony."

Tony glared into the wall, "That's what you always say.""That's what you always do."

Peter sneezed.

Tony snapped back to reality, his eyes flickering around. He adjusted his tie and shifted around in his seat. He was thirsty.

"Not-Pepper!"

"Yes, Mr. Stark?"

"Bring the thing I ordered earlier. Except mix it up this time. Also a little more caffeine. And something for my buddy," he said systematically. Whenever he wanted to avoid shame, he always switched subjects unrecognizably, with no pattern and sense. Doing this, he always avoided getting into deeper trouble. Though, he would never admit that he was consciously doing it.

"No, I'm okay," Rhodey said.

"Oh, and Not-Pepper?"

Peter looked up, wide-eyed, "Yes sir?"

"Can you bring a Rubix cube?"

Rhodey's expression was unamused, "To prove you were in a Rubix-solving club?"

"To prove you're a dick."

Peter could have sworn he heard Rhodey sigh. But the lieutenant's face expressed nothing but mild worry. He picked up his clipboard and hid it into his backpack, "I'll get right to it," then he hurried down the hall again.

He removed the dog tags from his pocket, swiping the metal in between fingers. He held them under the StarkTech light, watching in fascination as the surface glimmered and shined. But as he kept looking, he felt something sink in his stomach. The hairs along his neck and arms stood up, and he stopped in his tracks.

No, no, that couldn't be right.

The tags said _Rogers, Steven G._


	3. Howling Enigma

**Howling Enigma**

His name was Steve Grant Rogers.

Initially, he resided in Brooklyn. Though, he didn't have to tell Tony that; he figured that out on his own from the man's accent. The soldier had told him that he adored his humble apartment back home. He had said that even though the place was small and expensive, that was okay because he had been able to see the baseball parks right out his back window. And that's what made him love living there. He told Tony that he loved baseball; he would see a game whenever he had the money for it. He would buy a frank and a soda, he would sit on the hot metal bleachers, and he would always try to catch a fly ball.

 _One time,_ he had said, _I actually caught one. Aaron Judge hit it._

 _Who's Aaron Judge?_ Tony asked.

 _The best Yankee there is,_ he replied, smiling, _Currently, anyway. Since the Yanks kinda suck right now. But that's just my opinion. I like him for his charm._

Tony remembered that in that moment, he had been happy. He felt warm. These feelings should have been difficult for him to bare, since he had gone so long without freely expressing them. But, remarkably, the joy came naturally.

And that's how Tony spent nearly every day: he would tend to the Mark project in addition to cultivating his new friend as he told stories.

The soldier could move his head, but the rest of his body remained stationary. Tony grew melancholy from his intolerable pity for him. The soldier, however, forwent imperceptibility; he was in a state of dumb ignorance. No matter what torture-both physical and mental- the soldier endured, he persisted in being unaffected.

Tony should have admired this, but instead, he went on in his pity for the soldier. He brought water on flat car parts to the soldier's lips and changed his clothing whenever he grew too hot. He even occasionally brushed the soldier's hair during his stories.

To this day, Tony can not find any reason as to why Steve spoke so much, while Tony, himself, barely spoke a word to him. All he could recall was sitting idly in adoration whilst the soldier spoke despite his pain.

* * *

Rhodey glanced up from his notebook as the sound of someone approaching reached him. He folded over the corner of his paper, marking his page, and then he closed the notebook. He finally looked up, seeing the junior assistant from yesterday, "Hello Peter, sleep well?"

"Yeah, sorta," Peter said, sitting down at the table opposite the lieutenant. They were in a lounge room early in the morning. Tony would be with them after he wakes up, which, frankly, could be any time of the day.

"How was your first day?" Rhodey pressed.

Peter slightly worried at his bottom lip, "Hm? Oh yeah, that _._ It was fine, I liked it."

"You okay, kid?"

"Yes..."

Rhodey gazed him intently, "But something's bothering you."

"It's just-" Peter fumbled for words, "Mr. James, did Mr. Stark serve?"

"Serve? Like in the military?"

"Yeah."

"No. No, he never served," Rhodey paused, "He's been through alike situations, if that's what you're asking."

Rhodey made sure that he was cautious when he answered. He never usually spoke of Tony and his misgivings without permission; one, because he respected Tony's privacy, two, because it wouldn't be the right thing to do, and three, Tony had an image. His reputation of flirts, gambles, and one-night-stands, were (apparently) sacred to his playboy persona. Filling in the gaps with his grievings and sufferings could potentially distort his happy, genuine picture.

Rhodey and Pepper both know that Tony came back from Afghanistan a different man, what they don't know is who that man was.

But there was another reason why Rhodey was selective in his speaking. Said reason being that he classified himself as an "observer." He knew something was bothering Peter. He didn't question the way Peter asked peculiar things, he wanted to figure this out on his own. So Rhodey decided he'd let Peter carry out his questions, while the lieutenant watched for odd body language and patterns in speech.

The kid's eyes darted back and forth, "That was a weird thing to ask, huh?"

"I've learned to keep an open mind," Rhodey said, "Minds can't do well under pressure. How's that mind of yours, under pressure?"

"No, just-just thinking, I guess. I had a strange dream last night."

Rhodey frowned, "Oh?"

Peter flattened down the hairs on the back of his neck, "Yeah, I don't really wanna talk about it."

Rhodey opened his mouth to speak, but Peter stopped him. He put his backpack on the lounge room table and shuffled through its contents. He picked out his clipboard and pencil, and then poised his hand, ready to write.

"Do we have any more info?"

"Well, a colleague of mine is going to come here Saturday to help with what he can. He probably knows more about this man than I do; he's currently an officer at the Pentagon."

"Awesome," Peter said, and then sat up straighter, "I mean, that's good then, isn't it?"

"Well, yes," Rhodey began, "But we found no additional information. We're still at square one."

"Then let's pick up where we left off," Peter stated. He paused, "Where exactly did we leave off?"

The two probably spent the next whole hour going over emails, checking for any helpful responses. They also made a habit of clicking and refreshing nearly every website they pulled up. Peter continuously took notes; though Rhodey had no idea what _on._ They got so little done that the only thing truly accomplished on the computer was the act of removing an ad for shampoo.

See, Tony had been the only one going through the list of POWs, not them. He was also the only one who knew remotely anything. And he was nowhere to be seen. He had the tendency to stay in bed until past noon. Even on weekdays.

 _Especially_ on weekdays.

Rhodey groaned. He acknowledged that he and Peter weren't getting anywhere without Tony's help.

"Peter?"

"Yes, Mr. James?"

"Go get Tony's laptop from yesterday. In his office. I can try to login. Maybe I can see if he got any work done or if he just played Tetris the whole time."

"Would that help?"

"Sure. He mighta made notes on the POWs page, maybe," Rhodey shrugged.

The sudden demand almost overwhelmed Peter. He almost laughed awkwardly to compensate for the fact he was too hesitant.

When he'd gone to his boss' office yesterday, he'd found the dog tags. That possession gave him that bizarre, frightening dream of the animal-like man. He had spent over an hour staring at his ceiling, trying to determine if it were a dream or a hallucination. It felt like a dream because he woke up, but he hadn't exactly fallen asleep to begin with… had he?

Not only the vision from the tags had shaken him, but also the shock from when he had discovered their owner. He felt almost rejected by his boss. Mr. Stark hadn't given him the easiest first day, sure, but Peter still had an undying attachment to him. Especially within that brief minute when Peter thought that his boss was a vet, Mr. Stark just left a great impact on him.

So Peter was _crushed_ when he read _Steven G. Rogers_ on the dog tags. He didn't know who to be more angry with; Steven G. Rogers or Mr. Stark. But either way, it hurt, for no real reason either.

He felt unprepared when he was asked to go back to the office.

"Oh," was all he could say.

Rhodey looked up from his computer screen, "You remember where his office is, don't you?"

"Yes..."

"Then what's stalling you?"

"...Nothing," Peter said quickly, scooting up from his seat. He assembled his belongings back into his college backpack and proceeded to head out the door.

A million thoughts about Steven G. Rogers and Mr. Stark and dog tags ran through his head. These prospects certainly were unnew to Peter ever since he began to wonder about things. And yet he let thoughts distract him from time to time. In fact, he thought so intently that he almost passed the office.

Peter knocked on the double doors, only opening them after a beat of silence. The office was almost the exact same as it had been yesterday. A few metal tools were out of place and some dirty laundry was reeking up the sofa, but other than that, Mr. Stark's office remained the same.

But there was something else strange about the room. Peter hadn't noticed it until he had seen the shadow of furniture against the mid-morning sun. A collage of flurry, unrecognizable shapes of shadows were in the center of nothing.

The shadows were being cast by something on the window, it seemed. On the glass, imprinted by mere finger smudges, were two words. Peter went over to investigate. The first one was _howl,_ it had to be, he decided. The following word was already fading, all that could be easily seen were two _m_ 's, followed by an _a_.

What has two m's and an a? Grammar? Summary? Dilemma?

 _Howl Dilemma_ , that's it. There was a bar downtown called _The Howl Dilemma._

This had to have been Mr. Stark's unique way of explaining his absence. Peter smiled, his boss certainly never failed to surprise him.

Peter knew he should do the same and fetch the computer already. He first looked over the large desk, frowning when he didn't see a computer. He then tried the sofa, the bar, under the sofa, under the bar, and etcetera. Peter continued to search, but had no luck in finding the laptop.

Huffing in agitation, Peter slumped down onto a barstool. He slew his backpack onto the table and unzipped it. He began fishing through it, searching for his phone so that he could text Rhodey.

That's when his fingers collided with the dog tags.

 _Are you in pain?_

Peter jumped. He spun around on the stool, frantically looking around, "Hello?"

 _The Sun hurts my eyes._

Peter began to quiver, "Who's there?"

Letting go of the tags, he closed his backpack and put it around his shoulders. He stood up and ran for the metal double doorway.

Before he made it around the bar, Peter's ankle caught itself under the hook of the sofa. He fell to the ground with a thud, his face smacking the gritty, cold floor.

Pushing an elbow in front of him, he leaned on it to cradle his sore cheek with his other hand. He rubbed the minor injury tentatively; then something caught his eye. In front of his face lay a shot glass.

Mr. Stark must have forgotten to put it away.

Peter reached out for it. Curling his fingers against the glass, he went still. Even against the floor, Peter could feel his spine stiffening.

Oh no. It was happening again. A vision.

They were holding on to him too tightly. One man clutched his left arm, another crushed his right. They were hurting him, they were doing it on purpose.

He couldn't breathe. Why was it he couldn't breathe?

The men pulled him backward from the water chamber, his head lolling upwards at the force. They asked him something, when he replied, he knew he gave the wrong answer because they shoved his face underwater again.

Peter gasped. He was clutching his neck with his own two hands. He pulled them away, shaking, trembling. He tucked his knees into his chest and hugged onto them for dear life. His hands were cold and clammy against his quaking kneecaps. He was hot and cold at the same time.

Peter began crying. He wasn't sobbing, but tears were falling, and that was something. He wasn't one to cry, especially not when afraid.

But... _that._ It had certainly been more than just something to scare him, right? It had to be more evil or powerful. It wasn't something normal, it couldn't be. It had been beyond scary.

Wait... he wasn't crying. He was tearing up, but he wasn't crying. Something was just dripping from off his face.

Peter touched his hand tentatively to his head, and a chill went down his spine. His hair was wet, absolutely _soaked_. Water droplets were dripping from the ends of his hair onto his face and clothes. The shoulders of his shirt were drenched through.

He slowly undid his position on the floor. Carefully and silently, Peter hurried to the double doors and slid out. He closed the doors behind him and slid his back against the surface.

Taking off his flannel, Peter tried to dry his hair, using it as a towel; he was trembling and shivering from the cold the entire time.

"Marco?"

The junior assistant peeked through his flannel to see Rhodey galloping down the hall.

"Polo," he answered.

"Peter, _there_ you are! I was wondering what was taking so long and if you went to get a snack or went to the bathroom or," he paused, standing still, "Did you take a shower?"

Peter shook his head.

"Then why-You know what, never mind. I keep an open mind, I do," he declared, hands on his hips. He looked closer at Peter and then his expression softened at the edges, "Child, you're not alright, are you?"

Peter shook his head.

"Do you need a doctor?"

Peter nodded.

"Okay," the lieutenant said softly and invitingly. He wrapped an arm protectively around the kid, "C'mon. We have our own doctor in the East Wing."

Rhodey began leading him down the hall, shouldering by whenever they were given stares. Peter slowed down every now and again, but Rhodey kept gently urging him in the right direction.

That's when Tony showed up.

"Rhodey!"

The lieutenant stopped, arm still around Peter, "Hey, Tony. You're later than normal today."

"That's 'cause I fell down the stairs this morning. I forgot to put on a belt. Pepper usually reminds me to wear one, and today she didn't. So it's technically all her fault and-Woah. Rhodey, I thought _I_ was the only one allowed to wear my shirt around my head!"

Rhodey grumbled, "He's _sick,_ Tony."

The lieutenant didn't wait for a response and turned to the kid, "Wait here. I'll check you in," and with that, he went into the doctor's office, leaving Tony and Peter alone.

Tony looked over his shoulder, making sure that his friend had left before he turned to Peter. It was clear he was worried, but he tried not to show it, "Hey, kid, are you actually okay, though? You don't look good. Like you've seen a ghost."

Peter's eyes widened, "You're him..."

The American man who had been hunched over like an animal, with bared teeth and shaking structure, had been Mr. Stark. He had to be. There were differences in skin shades, hair and beard length, and even weight, but the animal had definitely been Mr. Stark, for sure. The eyes, the fear in the eyes, gave it all away.

That almost scared him.

Suddenly, Peter had this uncannily powerful, desiring urge to ask something whimsical: "Is the Sun hurting your eyes?"

Rhodey reappeared with a doctor beside him who took Peter by the arm. The doctor pulled the kid along into the medic room. Peter sat down on the plastic table, atop of the paper covering it. The doctor went away to check for some supplies, so the junior assistant was left alone with Rhodey.

"Mr. James?"

"It's just 'James,' kid. And what?"

"I don't think Mr. Stark fell down the stairs this morning. I think he was at The Howl Dilemma."

"Why d'ya say that?"

"He wrote it on his window."

"He wrote it on his window?" Rhodey accused, "I don't doubt you or anything, in fact that sounds very much like Tony."

Peter blushed, "It was foggy. I think it said that, but now I'm not so sure."

Rhodey's eyes narrowed on something distant, "Peter," he said, "something's hanging out of your bookbag."

Peter reached for the something, it swung loosley from between the zippers of the backpack, his fingers intertwined with the metal of the dog tags. Frowning, he pulled them out and laid them atop his lap. These things he never seemed to get rid of.

Looking closer, he noticed something.

"Mr. James, I mighta got the word wrong on the window."

"What makes you say that?"

"What are the Howling Commandos?"

Rhodey sat up straight, "A special military unit that handled Project: Rebirth back in World War II. But recently, a second Howling Commandos was forged to fight off Afghans and Iraqis," his eyes opened, a smile forming, "So, Tony wrote 'Howling Commandos' on his window?"

"I-I-"

Rhodey manifested jubilation, his eyes twinkling in satisfaction, "That's _fantastic._ We've got a truckload more info," he patted Peter's shoulder, "Good job, kid!"

And then he left, leaving Peter alone with the possession he no longer hated.


	4. Sesame Street

**Sesame Street**

He had heard that healing requires love, support, self-confidence, and all that other shit. He had waited over a month now for his soldier to heal. He tried to help him. Every single day, he would give up precious hours to help the soldier wiggle his fingers or help cool off his fevers with water; water stolen from the torture chamber. Tony did everything he could, but Steve was still not okay.

Surely, he had improved. He could stretch in the morning all on his own. He no longer vomited every piece of scrap he was given. But he had not improved _enough._ The soldier couldn't go an entire minute standing up, he would tumble over, dizzy in the head, before taking a single step. He still drew in fevers amongst the Afghan heat. Despite Tony's efforts, Steve still insisted he was doing better than yesterday, and that was enough for him.

He eventually grew angry with the soldier. There was no definite reason for his anger, it was neither plausible nor acceptable. Steve was permanently friendly; he gave no reason for resentment. And yet, Tony became furious with him.

Maybe his anger roused from his frustration with the soldier's health. Or, perhaps, his mood came from fear transformed into anger. Most likely it was because of the soldier's senselessness towards their harrowing dilemma. Even Tony, the Prince of Playfulness, knew the seriousness of their trouble. But the soldier stayed indifferent and naïve, and Tony hated it.

 _I don't understand your toleration methods,_ he said to the soldier one day.

Steve simply looked into his eyes, blinked, and asked, _Have you ever heard of Daphne Du Maurier?_

Tony lamented in vexation. How _dare_ the soldier ignore his statement! Considering all the torture he went through just to bring him water, he-

 _She was an author,_ Steve continued, _A playwright, too. The best novel of hers is called_ Rebecca _. Have you ever read it?_

In that moment, Tony had been crunching down on his molar teeth to keep from lashing out at the poor soldier. He had been too angry to speak. So he shook his head, no.

 _Well, in the story,_ the soldier began, pressing against the cave wall for back support, _Mr. de Winter confesses to his wife that he had killed his first wife, Rebecca. Now you'd think that she'd just run away screaming, right? Wrong. Mrs. de Winter stands in shock, completely still. The novel goes on to say: "When people suffer a great shock, like death, or the loss of a limb, I believe they don't feel it just at first. If your hand is taken from you, you don't know, for a few minutes, that your hand is gone. You go on feeling the fingers. You stretch and beat them on the air, one by one, and all the time there is nothing there, no hand, no fingers."_

The soldier paused, _Isn't that genius?_

Tony nodded.

Steve smiled, _Well, that's how it's gon' be with me. I can tell. I won't realize how scary everything is 'till I'm safe and far away._

Tony had set down at that point. His legs had been crossed, _Will that work?_

The soldier had tried shrugging, but only one of his shoulders had gone up, _It's not like it's up to me to decide how my brain works. I'll end up remembering everything; that's their goal, you know. To make us remember._

Tony thought on this.

 _It's okay, you'll make it through this. You'll end up being okay,_ the soldier had said, smiling. His teeth were ugly and tinted red. The previous night, one of Yinsen's men had forced his jaw into a wall. It bled for about an hour.

'And, you?' is what Tony _should have_ asked. At the time, he had not known that his soldier would not escape with him. He had not known how much the soldier had meant, and will mean in the future to him. Steve had been _Tony's_ soldier; but neither of them knew it. He had been an idiot. _Such an idiot!_

He had been too distracted to say anything: Steve had begun puking again.

* * *

The lieutenant's figure silhouetted against the darkness of the washroom. He had his arms crossed, but not in aggression, he smiled, seeing the junior assistant, "Hey, kid. Doctor told me you'd gone home."

Peter flicked his fingers over the sink, "Oh, yeah. I was just heading out."

Rhodey went by Peter's side and gazed into the mirror with him, "Your hair's dried."

"Yeah, I'm glad."

"Doing any better?"

"Yes."

"Are you sick?"

"No, no I don't think so."

Rhodey's eyes narrowed, but not in menace, in concern, "Are you okay, though? Really, you scared me back there."

Peter placed his hands down on the sides of the sink. He leaned his head down, "Geez, I don't know, Mr. James. I know there's something, something I couldn't do before..."

"What do you mea-"

"Mr. James, I think I have powers."

He said this with the back of his head running under the sink water. The liquid trailed down his hair, making it spiky, and then trickled down the drain. His eyes were tearing up, fear was inevitably there. Peter raised his head from the sink, water falling down from his face and shoulders once more. Only this time, tears were in the mix.

He wrapped his arms around his stomach. He spoke in a raspy whisper, "I don't know what's _wrong_ with me..."

"Powers?" Rhodey echoed.

Peter nodded. He sat down with his legs crossed on the washroom floor.

Rhodey paused, "Now, child, you know I won't question you if you don't want me to."

Peter shook his head, "N-No, _do._ Please, I wa-want to talk about this."

"Good. So what do you mean _powers?"_

"I can see things that aren't there," Peter looked around hesitantly, "scary things."

"Like…" Rhodey pressed.

"I saw Mr. Stark as an animal. It was scary. He was hunched over, half naked, and- _God,_ he was covered in _blood."_

"Woah, kid, slow down! _Where_ and _when_ did you see this?"

"When I went to his office. He wasn't there or anything, I was alone. It was all.. in my head, I think. Except," he went on, "Except, I don't think it was all in my head… because the next time, I saw the thing where the people had me underwater. But I don't think it was me, a-and I wasn't really underwater, I was–and then I woke up, and my hair was wet. I-It's like it was real, Mr. James."

"You think the-" Rhodey scrambled for the right word, "-vision, let's just say that, was the reason why your hair was wet earlier?"

"Yes..."

"There was nothing else, no other believable reason?"

"I don't think so..."

Rhodey placed a fist under his chin, looking much like the Thinker, "Was there anything there that triggered this, do you think?"

Peter took off his backpack and reached to the bottom. He pulled out the dog tags and hesitantly handed them over.

"These," he whispered. A tear and water drop fell down from his chin, "I touch them and the- what word did you use? Visions. I touch them and the visions happen."

Rhodey's jaw dropped. His fingers went numb and began to shake, even while holding the item. In his hands he held the Fountain of Youth of their search. The Holy Grail of their mission. He's finally got all he needs for finding the soldier and-

Wait. They weren't his. They were Peter's.

Suddenly, Rhodey formed a fist around the dog tags. He closed his mouth, but his jaw clenched automatically.

"Peter," he growled, "How long have you had these?"

"Since yesterday, "I was waiting for the right time to-"

"And, where did you _get_ these?"

"Mr. Stark's office."

The lieutenant paused, completely still. Then in slow movements, he stood up, placed his face in the sink, and began to pour water down the back of his head.

"Mr. James?" piped up Peter, "Are you o-"

"Angry," Rhodey answered without thinking. He lifted his head from the sink, "It's _James,_ kid, just _James."_

"Geez, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"See, this is what I get for asking questions," Rhodey steamed. He shut off the sink and sat down next to Peter on the bathroom floor.

"That's my philosophy. Remember it, Peter. Don't ask questions unless you need'ta. You'll end up in even more trouble than when you started."

"Are you mad at me?" Peter asked.

"No."

"Who are you mad at?"

"Your boss."

"You need me to talk to him for you?"

"No... no. Peter, go home."

"What?"

Rhodey rubbed his jaw, "I want you to go get some rest. Go home and get to sleep. Take tomorrow off if you want to."

"Tomorrow your Pentagon friend comes," Peter narrated.

"Yeah, so you can stay home if you need to. Tony'll understand. Just go home for now," he finished on a lighter note.

Peter was on auto-pilot. He stood up and put on his backpack without realizing it. He didn't snap back into control until he was at the washroom door. He paused, he thought he heard his name.

"Peter," it came again. Rhodey said it.

Peter looked back to the lieutenant, "Yes sir?"

"Call me if you get any more visions. Okay?"

Peter smiled, "Yes sir."

With that, Peter was gone. He strode down the halls of Stark Industries, punching his card on the way out. He thanked the kind receptionist who gave him a mint as he left.

Taking the subway home, Peter sighed happily. He loved Queens. He loved New York in general. Nobody looked at him twice, even with his wet sink-water hair. He felt at peace.

Even amongst this joy, Peter found a reason to frown. He hadn't felt any joy like this inside the work space. It was almost like something or someone in Stark Industries strained away his happiness.

But that was a dumb idea. He dismissed the thought and plugged in his Skullcandy earbuds.

* * *

In one hand, Tony held a bottle of whiskey, in the other, he clenched his television remote. Tony was sprawling across his bed, watching Sesame Street; not the newer version with Abby and Elmo, but the kind of Sesame Street he grew up on. The version that featured Kermit the Frog and dots appearing and disappearing on the screen.

" _That's beautiful, Big Bird. Really nice,"_ said the guy in the dumb blue shirt to the revered big yellow bird.

" _Thanks, I can't wait until he sees it!"_ Big Bird replied, holding his drawing of Mr. Hooper.

There was a knock at the door.

"Go away, I'm watching Sesame Street!" Tony barked. He took a sip from the bottle and then turned back to the tube.

Without warning, his door opened. Rhodey stormed in, laptop tucked under one arm, with a gaze of fury. The lieutenant paused in his tracks, "Wow. You really are watching Elmo."

"It's _not_ Elmo's World! It's Sesame Street!" Tony defended, "Besides, we both know this isn't the weirdest thing you've caught me doing."

Rhodey resumed his look of frustration, and placed himself in front of the television, "Look at me."

Tony groaned, rolling his head back, "Rhodeeey, this is my _house,_ my penthouse, for Chrissake. I _live_ here, you can't boss me around and block the screen! Who do you-"

The lieutenant held up the dog tags.

Tony quieted, "What do you want?"

"I _want_ you to tell me why you thought it wasn't important to tell us you know _everything_ about the man we know _nothing_ about!"

Tony's eyes flickered from the tags to his friend, "Those tags don't say _everything."_

"I beg to differ," Rhodey cleared his throat, "Captain Steven G. Rogers. Howling Commandos. Blood type B positive. Male. Born July 4th, 1988. Catholic. And the back even has an _address."_

Tony remained indifferent.

Rhodey crouched down to look him in the eye, "Why did you not tell us," he paused, "Why did you not tell _me?"_

Tony pointed to the TV screen, "Right there," he breathed.

The Latina woman in pink plaid stood from her chair at the table. She walked over to Big Bird and put an arm around him, " _Big Bird, don't you remember we told you? Mr. Hooper died. He's dead."_

The large yellow puppet's eyes went downcast, " _Oh yeah. I remember,"_ he suddenly appeared happy again, " _Well I'll just give it to him when he comes back!"_

Janet placed a hand over her heart, " _Big Bird, Mr. Hooper's not coming back."_

" _Why not?"_ cried the upset puppet.

" _Big Bird, w-when people die, they don't come back."_

" _Ever?"_

" _No. Never."_

Big Bird shook his head in disbelief, " _Well, why not?"_

The man in the orange shirt sighed, " _Well, Big Bird, they're dead. They can't come back."_

" _Well he's_ gotta _come back. Who's gonna take care of the store? And who's gonna make me bird seed milkshakes? And tell me stories?"_

No matter how the people did, they couldn't correctly explain to Big Bird what it really means to be _dead._ They told him that David will take care of the store and make bird seed milkshakes. All of Big Bird's adult friends will tell him stories. Janet said she will make sure they all take care of Big Bird. But he still couldn't grasp it. He couldn't understand that Mr. Hooper was dead and gone.

" _Well, it won't be the same,"_ Big Bird sighed.

The blue-shirt guy went on, " _You're right, Big Bird. It's-It's-It'll never really be the same without him. But you know something? ...We can all be very happy that we had a chance to be with him, and to know him, and to love him a lot, when he was here."_

Janet agreed, " _And, Big Bird, we still have our memories of him."_

" _Oh yeah,"_ Big Bird agreed, walking to the other side of the set, " _Memories. That's how I drew this picture, from memories! And we can remember him and remember him and remember him as much as we want to!"_ he paused, " _But I don't like how it makes me sad."_

" _We're all sad, Big Bird."_

" _He's never coming back?"  
_ " _Never."_

" _Well, I don't understand! Everything was just fine! Why does it have to be this way? Give me one good reason."_

The idiot producers ended the scene with the orange shirt guy answering with, " _It had to be this way...because."_

" _Just because?"_

" _Just because."_

Rhodey sat down on the bed. He had some look in his eye, a kind of look Tony didn't like. Rhodey tucked the tags back in his pocket and said, "You can just talk to me, you know. You don't hafta talk through these encrypted messages. And don't say you're not doing it, because I _know_ you're doing it."

Tong aggressively changed the channel.

A woman selling shampoo said, " _This is_ me! _This is who I am!"_

Rhodey grabbed the tube remote and turned it off.

"Rhodey."

"Tones, if I took time off my family time to come back here to _you,_ to clean up _your_ mess, I should think that you at least have the courtesy to talk to me. With your mouth. Not the TV."

"C'mon, Rhodey, what do you want from me? You already have the dog tags, you have all you need!"

"I just want to _know,_ Tones. I thought you trusted me."

Tony sat up on the bed, "Rhodey, Did you not see that Mr. Hooper _died?"_

"Tony, what? That was-What was that, like 1983? 1984?"

"1982. And Rhodey, when Mr. Hooper died, Big Bird was sad."

" _Here we go,"_ muttered Rhodey.

"And when Big Bird was sad, all of his adult friends on Sesame Street were there to help him, right?"

"Tony, don't tell me this is about-"

" _Right?"_

Rhodey sighed, "Right."

"Because they knew Mr. Hooper, too. They all knew and loved Mr. Hooper. Now, let's say that wasn't the case. Figuratively speaking, Big Bird was the only one to know Mr. Hooper. And he liked Mr. Hooper because he gave him–what was it?–bird seed on the rocks, or smoothies, or whatever it was. And Mr. Hooper was the only person who kept Big Bird from going insane and blasting all the other puppets with a piece of unfinished machinery."

Rhodey didn't dare speak.

"Mr. Hooper trusted Big Bird with a lot of secrets and personal issues. Big Bird promised he wouldn't tell anyone. But after a month of trying to help the soldier's damn sickly condition, I began to forget- I mean Big Bird began to forget which things were secrets and which ones were just dialogues. He'd been so caught up in keeping Mr. Hooper alive that Big Bird forgot to keep in touch with his inner genius. He even forgot to touch up on the Mark. A-And then it started raining. And Mr. Hooper gave Big Bird his dog tags, and he told him things, amazing, empowering things that he'll never ever forget," Tony looked directly into Rhodey's eyes, "He remembers every word. Every single breath and pause."

Tony's gaze traveled down to the mattress, where he was picking at lint, "Since the soldier-I mean Mr. Hooper, was so important to him, Big Bird tried to keep his memories of him preserved. He never spoke of him. He never went looking for him. But then Janet, his personal assistant, left. Big Bird felt afraid that he might lose her, too. He knew he wouldn't, he knew she'd come back in a month, but he was still afraid. He thought back to the soldier and wondered if he could ever get him back. That's when I finally realized that I can't just ignore him or else he'll be out of my life, too. And it won't be just for a month."

He tore a hole in the fabric, "Rhodes, I never meant to ignore him. I just wanted to preserve him. I want him back now."

Rhodey set aside his laptop so that he could ease into the mattress beside his friend. He crossed his arms behind his head for comfort. He waited a while before saying, "Tony, just a little clarification here, you were afraid your soldier would die if you exploited your memories of him?"

"I was afraid his memory would die."

"Is his memory more important than _him?_ "

"Rhodey, shut up. I learned my lesson, I got it now. I made the wrong choice, I learned from my mistakes. Yada yada yada," he sat up from the bed and began to walk towards the sink to wash out his now-rendered empty bottle.

Rhodey followed him, "Tones, that's not all I came here to talk about."

Tony was already putting on some headphones.

"Tony, it's Peter, your junior assistant, I'm afraid that he-"

By the magical force of ACDC, Tony could no longer hear him. No doubt his friend was saying something about the reason why Peter's hair was wet or his visions. Oh, yes, Tony knew. He knew exactly what was going on with the animal-looking man, the water-torture chamber, and the voices Peter experienced. He knew precisely.

But he didn't have to tell him. Rhodey could wait and experience it on his own.

* * *

 **Sesame Street Episode #1839. 1982.**

 **Author's Note: Did anyone else cry during this episode? Or was it just me?**


	5. 8 Minutes Sanctuary

**8 Minute Sanctuary**

 _Are you in pain?_ the soldier had asked one fateful day. What he asked was a hypocritical question, since the soldier himself was draped against the cave wall, literally cringing in pain. He had been in pain for the last week or two, despite Tony's desperate efforts to help him regain health. Tony, himself, was also in pain. But at the time, he hadn't had the heart in him to tell the soldier the real answer, so he had understated his response:

 _The Sun hurts my eyes_ , he had said, squinting.

Sunlight had actually been available inside the cave at that time of day. The exact time was evidently unknown to Tony, but he could guess it was sometime before noon. The Sun was glaring, hurling heat and humidity everywhere it could. Being an enclosed gap in the earth, the cave ended up being a blistering hotspot.

The soldier shrugged with one shoulder again, _Don't worry. It won't be here long._

 _What won't?_

 _The Sun_ , the soldier said, _It's going to rain later. I can tell. My back is hurting._

Tony peeked outside the entrance. The Sun had been as big and yellow as ever. The sky was a stubborn shade of greyish-blue, and had no clouds. He continued scouting, searching for any traces of cloud. He didn't believe the soldier; the only things he saw made him afraid. Because what he could see happened to be the parade of Yinsen's thrill-seeking, blood-sucking men. They were advancing in on him.

Tony shied away deeper into the cave. He backed up to Steve's side. He wanted to warn him, comfort him, but what was there to say? An assault was inevitable.

Panic soared through him, making the blood in his ears throb sluggishly. His chest felt tight. The cave was too hot and stuffy; he couldn't think, he couldn't decide what to do.

They were inside the cave now. Two of them, large, mindless brutes, grabbed Tony by the arms.

They were holding on to him too tightly. One man clutched his left arm, another crushed his right. They were hurting him, evilly, on purpose. They held his face under the water in the torture chamber. Periodically, they let him up to gasp and cough, only to be shoved back under water again. They did this continuously, Tony's chest tightening more and more each time.

The men pulled him backward from the water chamber, his head lolling upwards at the force. He could taste coppery blood at the back of his burning, itchy throat. He couldn't breathe through his nose; it was going numb. They asked him something, when he replied, he knew he gave the wrong answer because they shoved his face underwater again.

When they had finally brought him up again, they had spoken in English, _When will the weapon be completed?_

 _Soon,_ Tony had coughed back.

They put his face in the water again. After an extended time under water, they asked again.

 _Three weeks,_ Tony gasped.

 _Make it two,_ the man on his right arm demanded.

Tony nodded obsessively, still striving to inhale through his nose since his mouth lingered of blood and salt. He sneezed a few times; it hurt, especially considering the heat. The brutes didn't leave until giving a final, excruciating kick to his aggravated stomach. Tony laid down against the dusty, hard floor.

He had taken the moment to let a few tears fall noiselessly. His lungs labored in inflating, then shriveling. He tried his painful breathing through his diaphragm, keeping the noise down. He kept quiet the best he could, and it _hurt_ him. He wanted to scream out in agony and self-disgust, but he would never let himself give away his strength. He would not be broken, not now.

Amongst his silence, he heard a noise. Steve had coughed. Tony scrambled uncoordinatedly to his side.

 _Jesus,_ Tony whispered; though, he no longer believed in the so-called savior.

While Tony had been in the water chamber, Steve had been beaten to a pulp. He was black, blue, and purple all over. Blood was leaking from his left eye, he was squinting it shut. He was shivering against the sweltering Afghan heat, his teeth were even chattering.

Tony sat next to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. He muttered something inaudible. The soldier looked up with a twinkle in his open eye, except his gaze didn't meet Tony's, it was far off, in some other place. He began to speak; he gave a message, _When the Sun dies, Earth will have eight minutes to live. It would take eight minutes for the vapors and gases to actually reach Earth. There would be a small window of time for people to just live. They would have the time to hug and kiss each other, to say goodbye, to confess crushes, and to just hold each other. It would be the most peaceful time of their deaths._

Steve smiled, even though a tear slipped down his sunken cheek, _I would give anything for an eight minute sanctuary right now._

This lecture, Tony would never ever forget. Though at the time, he hadn't realized how much it would affect him.

Steve's teeth had begun to chatter once more. The tears continuously flowed. Tony watched the soldier in mere ignorance, he didn't understand what he was going through. He couldn't comprehend it at the time. He didn't know how broken his friend truly was. Tony, himself, was too shaken to think properly. He'd lost his genius earlier on.

All he had been able to do was watch the soldier cry himself to sleep.

* * *

Tony woke with a start after an unpleasant dream, not necessarily a nightmare, but not an innocent fantasy. He rubbed his temple, feeling the slightest indication of a hangover. It was miniscule and not-painful, but still an annoying throb.

He groaned and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The morning news was on his television screen. Some celebrity (of which he surprisingly did not know) was pregnant, some kind of new tax was repealed, and the Stark Industries Stock Share went up by 1.08%.

Tony hummed in satisfaction. It was always nice to be in the media, he was always open for a little brush-up on his ego. It seemed the people never got enough of him.

He began pouring himself some orange juice as the weather came on. An Asian woman in a pencil skirt pointed to a barely-readable map of New York state with patterned clouds and clouds with Suns.

Tony pouted. The news maps were dumb with their dozens of Suns. There was only one Sun. Tons and tons of _stars_ , sure. But only one Sun. That's five-year-old knowledge.

" _Throughout the week, the Sun will cover the whole state! We'll be experiencing lots of hot weather."_

Well, naw dip the Sun will cover the whole state. That's two-year-old knowledge. The Sun's diameter alone was 109 times the size of the earth. 1.3 Millions earths would fit inside the Sun's mass. Additionally, if the earths were flattened out, 11,990 would be needed to cover the Sun's surface. But of course, the Sun was only an average-sized star; others were much bigger.

And yes, Tony knew all of that offhand. He knew more facts about the Sun than he did robotics. Tony rolled his eyes in annoyance at the reporters. They really knew nothing.

He glanced at his digital calendar taking up space on his wall. The calendar said it was Saturday, but Tony wasn't so happy about it. Today, of all the days in the week, Mr. Pentagon is coming to Stark Industries. On a Saturday!

Tony normally enjoyed spending his Saturdays tinkering in his workshop, and then coming back to bed with a cup of Ramen waiting for him. He would then flip on the television and watch crappy movies until his eyes ached. But he wasn't a loser, no siree, he was not a loser. He would normally participate in these activities with Pepper and occasionally Rhodey. He always had his friends to bother.

He frowned, remembering that Pepper was away. She wouldn't be able to spend the Saturday with him (not that his Saturday was open or anything). Neither would Rhodey, now that Tony thinks about it. Rhodey's really busy in finding the soldier, he wouldn't find the time for it. He's also mad at him for some reason.

It wasn't that Tony didn't want to find his soldier. It wasn't that at all. It was just that he already finished his bit for the project. No, the POW online search was not his main accomplishment.

His work had been done three years ago, though it had been tampered with very recently.

No matter. Tony downed his orange juice in one go. It was time for him to prepare for work.

On a Saturday.

* * *

Rhodey did a double take at the boy at the work table.

"Peter? What're you doing here?" he demanded, placing down his notebooks at the table, "I thought I told you to take today off."

The junior assistant gave a legitimate smile, his nettle-brown eyes wide open and his grin as wide as could be, "I couldn't do that. I'm feeling _fantastic_ today, Mr. James!"

Rhodey mustered a small smile, sitting across from him, "That's good, kid."  
"I don't know what it is," Peter went on, expression unfolding with curiosity, "I just went home and I didn't feel like-you know, something was _after me_ or anything. I felt, I don't know. What's the word I'm thinking…"

"Happy?"

"Free," Peter finally said, a little more seriously.

Rhodey nodded, "Good. That's good."

Peter looked back to his clipboard, "Sargent Wilson should be arriving any moment now."

"Thanks, kid, but how did you know-"

"I've sort of taken up becoming your assistant. Mr. Stark doesn't always show up to work, so I figured, well, you know," Peter said, almost blushing.

"Oh. Thanks, Peter. I appreciate it. But Tony will show up to work today. He'd _better,_ anyway. Or else I'm taking away his Sesame Street privileges."

There was a knock at the door, Peter hurried over to fetch it.

"Sargent Wilson," he cheered, stepping aside to let him through, "It's an honor!"

Sam Wilson was dressed in uniform, though not the combat one, the proper Air Force attire. But his expression did not match the distinguished seriousness of his uniform, he was smiling; he was wearing sunglasses, too.

The sargent grabbed his hand and shook, "Thanks, Peter."

The junior assistant hesitated, "How did you know my na-"

The sargent bent his head down to whisper in his ear, "Don't mean to scare you or nothin', but Lieutenant Rhodes told me about you. Your visions I mean."

Peter gaped.

"It's only for business, I promise you, Peter. I'm not telling anyone," he assured, doing a mock-salute. He placed a hand on Peter's shoulder; he lingered there for a moment. Then he patted Peter's shoulder once more, before going off to the work table.

Rhodey stood up, greeting him with a hug, "Hey, Sam!"

Sam hugged back, "How you doing, James?"

Peter stood in the center of the booked room, slightly dumbfounded, slightly embarrassed. He expected that the lieutenant and the sargent would have a positive greeting, of course, but he didn't expect a _hug._ The most he had ever received from either of them were comforting shoulder touches. He wasn't jealous or anything, he was just… astounded to see two dignified military officials smiling and hugging.

Rhodey and Sam tossed jokes and conversations back and forth whilst Peter watched, slightly abashed. They did this until Tony _finally_ decided to show up fifteen minutes later.

"Hello, hello," Tony announced in a singsong tone.

Rhodey smiled, "Oh so you _did_ want to come to work today."

"On a Saturday," Tony mumbled. He snapped his finger and turned to his assistant, "Not-Pepper. Get me something fizzy."

"On it," Peter said, skirting out of the booked room.

Sam frowned, "You know, he has a _name."_

Tony shrugged, "Yeah, well I forgot it."

He sat down at the table. Rhodey slid a pile of paperwork to him, along with a computer and a pen.

Sam took off his sunglasses, folded them, and placed them on the table.

"So," he began, "How far along are we?"

"Well, yesterday, we.." Rhodey glanced at Tony, and then back to Sam, "..made a breakthrough. We have a lot more information now. The process will be much easier."

"Great. So what is it we have left to do?"

"Just track down this guy," Rhodey said, with a smirk of determination.

Rhodey slipped the dog tags from his pocket onto the table. Sam picked them up and fondled with them. He found the address on the back, "This address is out of date."

"I'm aware," Rhodey said monotonously, "That's the only reason why we haven't found him yet."

Sam flipped open his laptop, "Well I don't know Steven Rogers. But I do know the Deputy Captain of the second Howling Commandos. He never reported any MIAs, though," he paused, frowning, "only casualties."

Tong made a noise of protest.

Rhodey placed a hand on his shoulder, but kept looking to Sam, "So what're you gonna do?"

"Obviously, I'm gonna email him. But we can do our own independent investigation. How's that sound, Tony?"

Tony didn't respond; Peter showed up and gave him a fizzy orange drink. So Tony, no doubt, attempted chugging the entire thing.

"Tones..." Rhodey said, "I don't think that's a good idea."

Tony put a finger up, silencing him. He hand the can tilted all the way up. Then he took it away and crushed it against the table.

"A thirty second chug," he said with a dumb grin on his face.

Peter looked almost horrified.

Rhodey, however, was unamused, "You better not burp."

"That's gross."

"Exactly," Rhodey muttered. He turned back to Sam, "I'd like to apologize for his behavior. He doesn't mean it."

Sam pouted, "I'm not convinced. Now, Mr. Stark?"

"Yes dear?"

"Will you please be serious? I'll have you know that I'm taking time away from my family to help you out today."

"Absolutely," Tony said.

No one really believed him. That was their own faults, really, because Tony _was_ paying attention to everything. He was listening to all the proposed ideas and contemplated everything through intently. He just threw in the occasional joke or snarky comment, simply because it helped him think more easily.

So, yeah. He had complications. But he didn't let them on. He continued drumming his fingers along the table as Sam spoke.

"-see, the address is _expired._ It won't pull up on any maps. The place–wherever it used to be– was most likely torn down and turned into a highway. Or something."

Tony stopped drumming his fingers, "The address is expired?"

"Yes. You weren't here when I established that."

"It's in Brooklyn," Tony said automatically.

"Pardon?"

"It's Brooklyn. Someplace in Brooklyn. Close to a baseball park," he clarified. Then Tony's eyes widened, he covered his mouth with his hands like a child who wasn't supposed to reveal his mother's secret.

Sam didn't stop to think about it. He immediately turned to his computer and typed away. He clicked for a while, and then frowned, "I found the main baseball park in Brooklyn, and none of the apartments around there match the address."

"Yeah," Tony mumbled under his hands.

He had forgotten his dilemma: he wasn't supposed to tell his soldier's secrets, whichever ones were secrets anyway. He couldn't remember. So he had to keep quiet in preservation. But apparently preservation is bad now.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tony could see Peter handing a drink off to Rhodey, and the two engaging in conversation.

Oh, that's right. Rhodey didn't know yet. Tony could use this opportunity to have him learn, and in addition, make an attribute to finding the soldier, indirectly, of course; without revealing anything he wasn't supposed to.

"Rhodey," Tony barked.

"What?"

"Go into my office and get the book on my desk."

"What kind of book?" Rhodey asked, "Is it a map book?"

Tony looked aghast, "Are you kidding me, Rhodey? No. It's a novel. Just get it for me. It might help me think."

Rhodey sighed, "I don't see how a _novel_ will help. But you're weird. It might work for you."

He stood from his seat and began walking toward the exit. By godlike speed, Peter beat him there, standing in front of the door.

"Are you sure, Mr. Stark?" Peter asked, "It's my job, I can definitely go get it, I mean-"

Tony waved him off, "No, no. Stay here."

Peter almost looked offended. He backed away in disappointment, "Oh, sorry."

Rhodey gave the junior assistant a look before leaving.

"Not-Pepper," Tony said, kicking his legs up on top of his paperwork.

"Mr. Stark!" whined Sam, trying to pry the papers out from beneath the expensive leather shoes.

"Yes sir?" Peter asked.

"There are some DVDs on the coffee table by the window for when boredom comes."

Peter was still a little hurt at the fact that his boss had not chosen him for his bidding. He never did like the feeling of being replaced; and on top of that, he especially didn't like disappointing someone. But, he had to admit, Mr. Stark's invitation made him curious.

He peeked over at the coffee table. He frowned, seeing Disney sing-a-longs and early childhood development programs.

"Mr. Stark," he said, "These are-I'm not a little kid, you know and-"

"Who said they were for you?" Tony snapped, "They're for _me."_

"Oh," Peter smiled, "Oh, I see."

* * *

Rhodey entered his friend's office in a little bit of a mood. He was frustrated with Tony. First, the guy acts like the whole project is a joke. Second, Tony sends _him_ away to fetch something unimportant, even though Tony had a perfectly capable teenage asset.

But no, Rhodey wouldn't get mad. He wouldn't question either. He knows Tony thinks differently.

But he was still annoyed; no philosophy could help with that.

He found the novel atop a clipboard of design doodles. He picked up the book, but looked closer at the doodles underneath. They appeared to be humanoid robot… things. Alongside that, _Mark_ was written all over the page.

Rhodey pouted. He didn't know anyone named Mark.

He looked back to the book. The cover was blue with red print that read: _Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier._ It was an old book, printed back in the early forties, maybe even late thirties. This was very unlike the usual Playboy Magazines Tony would read.

Rhodey shrugged and began to head back out. But then he stopped in his tracks.

He had this weird feeling. His spine was stiffening. The small hairs on his arms and legs began standing up. He didn't feel right.

Then suddenly, a vision.

 _So is this where you live?_ he asked. Except it wasn't his voice. The voice was someone else's; someone he knew well. In his hands he held something small and metal.

The scenery was so faded and blurry; he couldn't exactly see what he was holding.

 _No,_ replied another voice, an unfamiliar one. The speaker was out of a clear-vision range. His figure was distorted and fuzzy.

The second speaker went on, _It's my best friend's house. I had his address added on my tags for insurance reasons._

 _Insurance reasons?_ he asked, in the same familiar–yet, not distinctive voice.

 _I can't afford it,_ the soldier said.

Wait. Yes! That was it! The soldier! The unfamiliar speaker was the soldier, he _had_ to be!

But, then the familiar voice...

Rhodey gasped with a start. His breathing was shallow and uneven for a while, heart pounding unnaturally fast. The shuddering in his rapid breathing slowed as he regained control. He blinked once, twice, three times.

"So," he said to himself, "Captain Rogers' dog tag address is inaccurate."


	6. Princesses and Poignancies

**Princesses and Poignancies**

 _Steve,_ Tony had cried, shaking the soldier, _Steve! Steve, wake up! Please!_

With an inhumane gasp for air, the soldier gave way. His body jerked into sitting up on instinct. His forehead collided with Tony's, sending both falling back in pain. Tony scrambled backward, hissing in pain, while the soldier held his forehead in his hands, on the verge of tears.

Tony immediately hated himself.

He had wanted so desperately to apologize, but he had known there was no time for that. Tony wrapped an arm around his friend's shoulders, stabilizing him. But the soldier was not letting up; he was going to cry, Tony could see it. He covered Steve's mouth with his hand, clasping down before he gave them away.

Not to mention, crying would have damaged the soldier's eye even further. At the time, his eye proved to be a purple, pulsing mess.

Steve twitched and shook a little bit, but he submitted to Tony's hold. Tony hesitated a moment, before using his free hand to point just outside. Though it couldn't have been any later than dusk, the sky was black and gruesome. It was raining heavily. The clouds, perniciously dark grey, were emitting buckets and buckets of rain. The occasional lightning bolt sent the Afghan troops running around in idiocracy, packing up supplies and securing weaponry.

With hesitance, Tony took his cuffing hand off the soldier's mouth. He set down his other hand as well. Then he looked Steve in the eye.

 _I have a plan,_ he had said.

The soldier expressed curiosity, _How so?_

 _We have to leave. We have to leave now. Now is our only chance,_ Tony spat, he hadn't spoken so much in over a month. His throat was contracting and his voice was unstable; but he continued speaking.

 _The Mark, i-it's capable of so much. We can escape, a-a-and we can kill as many Afghans as we want. And we can make it out of here, just you and me._

 _We can go home?_

 _We can. We_ can, _I just said so. Weren't you-weren't you listening? The Mark, it can-_ Tony stopped, his eyes widening.

The soldier's breathing became uneven, _What?_

Tony placed his head down between his thighs, wrapping his arms around his legs, in a little ball. He shook his head, _Oh no,_ he muttered, _no._

 _What?_ the soldier cried again.

 _I only made one Mark._

Steve quieted, waiting for more.

But Tony had no more to say. He had forgotten to work on it since the soldier came, he hadn't even _thought_ about constructing a second machine. He never went back, never went back to account for his friend's survival. He had forgotten. He hadn't felt much shame and guilt at the time. Tony remembers just being in a state of blankness, and complete shock.

But Steve hadn't responded the same way.

 _Is the Mark that iron man over there?_ he had asked; he had been pointing to the lumpy figure beneath the plastic tarp.

Tony nodded.

 _Is he heavy?_ he then asked.

Tony lifted his head to meet the soldier's gaze. He was confused. He nodded.

 _Then we don't need two Marks. I'm not..._ for the first time since his captivity in the cave, Steve seemed embarrassed, _I'm not capable of lifting anything heavy right now._

Tony remained still.

The soldier appeared saddened, as if he had been hoping for Tony to react. He furrowed his brow, and then crawled towards the scrap pile. His movements were slow and weak, pitiful beyond a doubt. He tripped over his own wrists a few times, but still scrambled in his poor form to the tarp. He gave the plastic a tug, sending it flying weightlessly across the cave floor.

Steve reached around the Mark, feeling around the other scrap metals, until he finally pulled out a large, round dish. He examined it awhile, and then braced it against his arm, using his jacket sleeves to tie it around. He gave his invention a little wave through the air.

 _Look,_ he had said, _I have a shield. And you have your iron man._

The gears inside Tony's head that have remained stationary for months finally began to tug a little. He nodded. He crawled across the cave floor and into the Mark, slipping limbs in the right places. He took a deep breath before putting the helmet on. Steve readjusted his helmet for him calmly, as if it were something he did everyday. He bore no expression. He fidgeted with his shield before preparing to stand, using the cave wall for support.

Of all the things from Afghanistan that Tony remembers perfectly, this moment was the only exception. Steve hadn't been lying when he'd said that Yinsen wanted them to remember. They made it horrific, so he wouldn't forget. And Tony remembered everything, everything except _this_ moment, everything except the climax of his misery.

The only memories of this day he can be sure of were fuzzy and muted. He remembers bullets tapping at the Mark as softly as the rain fell. Through the eyepiece of the helmet, he had seen the soldier stumbling after him. He had been so pale, on the verge of fainting or vomiting; or both. Somewhere along the line he had grabbed onto his soldier's arm, urging him forward with one hand, blasting everything he could with his other hand.

Then there was the tug, followed by the weightless tingling of his arm. Steve had been on the ground, no longer holding his shield but an arm of the Mark, pulled from the metal socket.

Then there were no more bullets, no more running. They were far away. It was still raining. Tony was lying down, too. He was in a ditch, he could see that because he wasn't wearing his helmet. He saw Steve lying a little ways ahead, with his bloody back facing him.

Tony had wanted to help. But he hadn't the strength to move.

* * *

Rhodey was still stunned from his vision in the office. "Afraid" wouldn't be the proper word because he really was not scared. He was surprised; he just went through what Peter did. But even with the incredible uncanniness of the situation, he refused to let himself think of it; he had more information on the missing soldier. Rhodey had to set his focus on that with no distractions.

He'll talk about his vision later, with Peter. But as of now, he had something important to do.

Rhodey entered the booked room. An animated movie was being projected onto the blank wall, Peter and Tony were both watching in idolatry. Sam was unamused; as was Rhodey. The lieutenant slammed the novel into Tony's chest as he passed the table. He didn't watch for his reaction.

"Ow!" Tony shrieked in exaggeration, "Dude!"

Rhodey ignored him and took his seat across from the sargent, "Sam," he said, "Don't ask how I figured this out."

Sam quirked an eyebrow, "You were the one who taught me not to question people."

Rhodey almost smiled, "The address on the dog tags does not belong to Steve Rogers."

Sam didn't have time to react: his computer made an aggressive noise. He opened a tab hurriedly, clicking to the right page. His eyes didn't leave the screen when he waved his hand to Tony, "Mr. Stark, please shut off the Disney."

"Why?" he groaned.

"The Deputy Captain from the Howling Commandos is going to video chat with us, right now. This meeting is _crucial!"_

Tony groaned again. He muted the movie, but didn't shut it off.

Rhodey and Peter were at either of Sam's shoulders instantly, peeking at the computer screen with interest and curiosity. The laptop made a couple of whirring and clicking sounds before letting the face of the deputy captain appear. He seemed to be in his early thirties, though the tired bags under his eyes and the stubbly chin made him look older than Tony. He had russet brown hair tied back in a small bun, and unmatching blue-grey eyes.

The deputy captain began the video holding his camera too low, exposing the underside of his face. With a few readjustments, his camera was steadily focused on his sincere expression.

"Sargent Wilson, Lieutenant Rhodes," he greeted.

"Deputy Captain Barnes," they both greeted at the same time, then smiled.

The man on the screen smiled back, breaking his serious character, "Can you guys hear me okay?"

"Loud and clear," said Sam.

"Who's this?" he asked, indicating the junior assistant.

Peter smiled, "Hello, Mr. Barnes, Deputy Captain, Sir, my name is Peter Parker," by now he was blushing in bashfulness, "I work for Mr. Tony Stark."

"Just call me 'Bucky,' before you hurt yourself. All of you, call me 'Bucky'" he said in amusement, "Mr. Stark, you say? Can I see him?"  
"Well..." Peter began, looking back to his boss, who was engrossed in watching the muted movie, "it seems he's occupied at the moment."

"Figures," Bucky said, "Now, Sargent Wilson, what can I do for you and Lieutenant Rhodes?"

Sam laced his fingers together in front of him, regaining a bit of seriousness, "We're on an investigation to recover an exceptional POW. You may have some information, so it would be best if you answered everything to your full extent."

"Of course, I'll do anything to help."

"Great," Sam smiled, though his smile wasn't too warm, "Captain Steven G. Rogers from the Howling Commandos became an MIA three years ago back in Afghanistan. Don't deny it, we have a witness account. So why did you not report this?"

Bucky's face darkened, "Steve didn't-" he paused, his eyes focusing in on something distant, "Are you watching The Little Mermaid?"

" _No!"_ screamed Tony in the background, " _What idiot confuses Ariel for Merida?"_

Rhodey slapped the back of Tony's head, "Knock it off! Show some respect!"

"Merida is the best princess _ever,"_ Tony said, completely ignoring the video call.

Sam put on his sunglasses in aggravation, "What fantasy are you living in Mr. Stark?"

"Thank you..." Rhodey mumbled.

But Sam wasn't done: "Everyone knows Tiana is the best princess."

Tony cringed all the way back into his spine, " _No!_ It's Merida!"  
"Tiana!"

"Merida!"

"Tiana!"

"Merida!"

"Tiana!"

"Merida!"

"Tiana!"

"Not-Pepper!"

"...I'm... not a princess," Peter whispered.

Tony rolled his eyes, "I meant for you to tell me who the best Disney Princess is."

"Oh, well, um," Peter rubbed the back of his neck, "I always liked Princess Aurora."

" _Who even_ is _that?"_ Tony screamed, slamming his head down on the table.

Rhodey turned back to the computer screen, "I am so sorry, sir. See what I have to deal with every day?"

Bucky couldn't suppress a small smile, "Is it bad that I kinda like Moana?"

"Not you too…" Rhodey sighed.

Tony would not let the subject go, "Moana had no character development, whatsoever! She virtually had the same personality as Rapunzel!"

Bucky stared, "You take that back."

Tony smirked, "Not until _Rhodey_ tells us who the best Disney princess is."

All four sets of eyes turned to the lieutenant.

"Oh," Rhodey said, feeling a blush creeping on, "I don't really-"

"Dude. Just say it's Tiana and we can get back to work."

" _But Merida is the best!"_

" _Shut up!"_

" _You shut up!"_

Rhodey slammed a fist down on the table, "Kidagakash."

They blinked simultaneously.

"Princess Kida. From _Atlantis: The Lost Empire."_

"She's not Disney."

"She is actually. And she is the best princess because she is a leader and a warrior. She puts her people before her heart," Rhodey turned to glare at Bucky, "unlike Moana," and then back to the others, "She's intellectual, strong, brave, and did I mention she's a _warrior?_ But like in the movie, she is virtually immortal, compared to our standards, which is unlike all of our warriors. The warrior we're searching for right now is not immortal; he could be in danger or _dead_. This is _real._ We need to focus on _warriors_ not _princesses._ Now that we've established that nuisance, let's carry on. Shall we?"

Sam straightened the buttons of his uniform while Peter rearranged papers. Tony, however, went back to watching _Brave._ Rhodey ignored; there was no point to try to get him to contribute.

"Peter, what were we last doing?" Rhodey asked the junior assistant, who always took notes.

Peter referred to his writing, "Sargent Wilson claimed that Captain Steven G. Rogers was an MIA and that Deputy Captain Barnes had neglected to report as such."  
Bucky glowered at Sam through the screen, "And I was saying that he never went missing in action."

"We have a witness account," Sam stated.

"But he didn't."

"Yes, he did."

"No, he didn't, he couldn't have," though the picture quality was poor, everyone could see the slightest hints of tears welling up in the deputy captain's eyes, "I would know, I watched him _die."_

Sam was indifferent, "But, Bucky-" he paused, thinking, "Well, when was the last time you saw him?

"When he died. It had to've been only a week into our operation when our camp was under attack by Afghan troops. He-He-I saw him being dragged off by a couple of men. He had to've gotten hurt or somethin', otherwise those guys wouldn't've stood a chance," he muttered, a small smirk of pride perched on his lips, it faded away as he recounted the next part.

"And then, Stevie reached in his pocket and swallowed his emergency suicide pill."

" _What?"_ Peter exclaimed.

"It's _war,_ kid. If the Afghans got away with him, he could've gave away important info. He had to take his life, or else we'd all be _dead._ Don't you get that?" Bucky snarled.

No one spoke. Complete silence found its way into the booked room, no one even preparing to speak, just resting. The only sounds were the wisps of air coming from inside the air ducts.

That was, until, Tony spoke out of nowhere, "Kida is like 800 years old."

There was a small beat of rest.

"I'm sorry, Bucky," Sam said.

"No, don't. I'm sorry I yelled. It's just-" he grimaced, "he was my best friend."

Rhodey's breath caught, "He was your best friend?"

"Yeah, I'd known him since we was kids," Bucky muttered, a Brooklyn accent sinking in.

Rhodey grabbed the missing soldier's dog tags from the table and held them in front of the computer's camera.

"Does this happen to be your address?" Rhodey asked, reading the street name and number aloud.

Bucky's gaze narrowed, "That was my home as a kid."

"It's not anymore?"

"About four or five years ago, the government tore down the whole community and put up a highway."

Sam pointed a finger, "Called it."

"Bucky, did you know that Captain Rogers put down your address on his dog tags?"

The deputy captain covered his face with his hand, "That punk..."

"No, Mr. Bucky, don't worry," Peter soothed, "I mean think about it: he didn't die. He couldn't've. Mr. Stark met him, after all, and that was after the attack at the camp! The captain probably has some awesome metabolism and a strong immune system or something so that he lived; he probably got really sick, but he could've lived. Because Mr. Stark met him. And Mr. Stark did _not_ make up the whole story."

Sam turned to stare at the Disney-engrossed loon, "You didn't make up the story, did you?"

Without a word, Tony shut off the projector and left the room.

Rhodey slapped the back of Sam's head, but said no more.

They went on with business. A lot of information as to the probable conditions of the soldier were revealed, along with memories that the deputy captain had with him from their childhoods. Bucky went on to explain that if Steve happened to still be alive ("That punk better be, his mother's given up on him"), he was most likely taking place here in New York.

"If he's not in New York, he's dead," Bucky had said.

And then the dialogue was done.

Sam had already packed up, shaken hands, and left. Peter was packing up his notes into his backpack while Rhodey tried disassembling the projector.

"James?"

Rhodey smiled, "You called me 'James.'"

Peter blushed, but tried shrugging it off, "Yeah."

"What is it, kid?"

"It's just-I'm worried about Mr. Stark."

Rhodey's smile faded, "Oh?"

"Since Sargent Wilson said that insensitive thing, Mr. Stark had been locked up inside his office. And it's just-I'm worried."

"The office is where the visions happen," Rhodey stated.

"I mean, yeah, that's true, but I was mostly referring to-"

"-Peter, I _had_ one. A vision. Just like you. In Tony's office."

Peter gaped, "You had one too?"

"It wasn't violent or anything," Rhodey said, "It was just _bizarre._ That's how I figured out that Captain Roger's address wasn't his own, from the visions."

"I guess that means I don't have powers."

"It also means you ain't crazy, child. And that's a good thing," Rhodey started heading to the door, "C'mon."

"Where are we going?"

"To talk to Tony."

The walk to the office was quiet compared to the excruciating, noisy day they had spent together. Peter and Rhodey kept their individual thoughts to themselves, only taking part in small talk. Peter was worried that his boss was hurting from what Sargent Wilson had said, either that or battling with sad memories of Afghanistan. Rhodey, however, was more concerned with the concept of visions inside the office. He hoped to God that Tony wasn't going through one right now, after his terrible day.

Rhodey pushed open the double doors, "Tones?"

To both of their surprises, Tony was seated at his desk normally, reading Rebecca. He looked up when they entered, "Howdy. What brings you 'round these parts?"

Peter fumbled with his hands, "It's just that, Mr. Stark, we were worried."

"Worried," Tony echoed.

"About you."

"Why?"

"-Because this room isn't safe, Tony," Rhodey said before Peter could answer, "It makes you see things, weird, unhealthy things. There's got to be poisonous mold or mushrooms in the vents or something that make you see things."

Tony smiled, "No, I assure you, it's perfectly safe for me."

"Tony, what are you talking about? C'mon, let's get out of this office," Rhodey said, trying to get Tony out of his chair, "See, you don't know what this room does-"

"Oh, I know perfectly well."

Rhodey let his arm go, "Tony?"

Tony's smile faded. He glared, "You seriously haven't figured it out?"

"Figured what out? Tony!"

Tony pointed to his chest, tapping against his arc reactor, _"I_ did this."

"Mr. Stark?" Peter piped up, "I don't think I understand."

Tony glared at the both of them now. He shook his head, "You're all a bunch of idiots."

And then he dismissed them from his office.


	7. Times Square

**Times Square**

Tony's head had been throbbing for over three hours. He had, naturally, ignored it so that he could focus on his circumstance.

He and the soldier had fled–as Tony remembered– Yinsen's cave, having barely escaped with their lives. The Mark had died; completely destroyed, having been pierced by bullets and worn down by the sinister Afghan weather. The poor machine had been blown to smithereens.

 _No more Iron Man,_ the soldier had said.

Then there was the second issue: the Sun. Tony and the Steve were presumably leagues away from their death camp, in a barren desert, frying in the sand. They were absolutely boiling in the Sun. Tony had no idea how long they had been out there; his skin was pink, cracked and peeling.

Tong remembered Steve saying something about the Sun blowing up. He stared up at it, waiting. But it never went away.

And then the third dilemma: Steve. The soldier's health hadn't let up once before, and it certainly wasn't going to at the time. It seemed that he was sick, shaking and sweating. He kept murmuring under his breath, saying he was _cold_ , so Tony hated him all over again.

Tony sat atop a sand dune, pondering with his head in his arms.

Then came a trudging sound behind him; it was Steve, unsteadily galloping through the sand.

Tony glared at him, _Steve, stop it._

The soldier went on.

 _I said_ stop it. _You're going to get hurt._

The soldier paused in his tracks then, but not because Tony wanted him to do so. A hint of realization was expressed on his face, it was enlightening.

 _I have an idea_ , he said, _Your Iron Man, we can use the parts to build a statue._

 _A statue?_

 _A beacon. Something so tall that people can see it from far,_ far, _away. So people will find us._

Tony frowned, confused, _You want them to find us?_

Steve stifled a grimace, _No, not the Afghans. Americans. We're gonna be found by Americans._

Tony remained constant.

 _If the Afghans come after us, we get them,_ Steve said.

 _Get them?_

 _Get them. By whatever that may mean. Just don't let them get us,_ Steve said. His expression shifted, changing into a smile filled with pure joy, _I_ walked _here._

Tony almost smiled back, almost, _Good job, Steve._

 _Thanks,_ he said, but there was hardly a point to it. Tony didn't really mean 'Good job,' neither did Steve really appreciate it.

They spent twenty minutes in the compressing heat trying to wedge the chestpiece upright in the sand. They spent another half hour positioning the upper legs of the Mark atop the chestpiece.

It had been maybe ten minutes into moving the Mark's burdenly heavy lower legs when the heat began to thicken. Skin was peeling off Tony's blistering knuckles. His breathing was weak and pointless. He kept on shoving the leg, the metal scathing his hands. It became too hot, Tony jerked his hands back. He buried them in the sand for coolness; almost none was given.

The soldier was still shoving the Mark's lower leg, though, no doubt, it was far more painful to him. He heaved and pushed, but fell victim to the heat just as Tony did.

There was a plop in the sand when Steve collapsed.

Tony scrambled through the sand to his side. First, he checked to make sure he was breathing; he was. Breathing a slight sigh of relief, he shielded the soldier from the sunlight. He clapped his hands against the soldier's cheeks, _Steve. Come on._

The soldier groaned, his eyes still closed.

 _It's not hot,_ Tony lied, _Get up._

 _I'm not supposed to be here…_

Something tugged inside Tony's gut, _I know,_ he said, _we're far away, I know. We'll be home soon._

 _I mean... I'm not supposed to be alive. I'm supposed to be dead._

Tony sank back into the sand, _Don't you say that._

 _Listen... I'm not..._

He slung sand grains into the Steve's face, _You bitch, I said don't say that!_

Tony had forgotten how sensitive the soldier had become over the past few months. That fateful night when they escaped, Steve had almost cried over Tony's head colliding with his. He had gone from the Great American Poster Child with nobility and grace, fighting off the bad guys and telling enchanting stories, to a reduced state of misery, a little baby who couldn't fend for his own.

And Tony hated that about Steve too.

In reacting to the sand, the soldier covered his face with his hands. The sand was blinding his eyes and nose, he was struggling not to choke it down. After swiping his eyes dry with his bare cracked fingers, he finally stopped withering and whimpering, beginning to calm down in the heat.

He looked to Tony with sand and tears gritted in his one good eye.

 _I did something bad,_ he said.

Tony eased down into the sand, _What did you do?_

 _I took a suicide pill. … I didn't want them to get to me. I didn't want to give away anything. And then I took it and now, now I'm so sick..._

 _And now, you're stuck with me._

Steve shook his head, _No. No that's not it. If I-If I had taken the pill and died, the United States Army would have more secrets, be more protected, you know? And everything would be good and-No, but that's not it. Not everything would be good. You'd still be here with your Iron Man. But, hindsight is, the good thing about the suicide pill is that it_ didn't _work: I got to meet you. … You're my friend, you're the best friend I've ever had, I think. You took care of me. And I just—Tony, I'm sorry, I almost missed out on being your friend._

Tony's breath caught, _You know my name?_

 _Yeah. You talk in your sleep._

 _You're my friend?_

Steve squinted his eyes shut from the sun and sand. When he opened them, he bore a solemn expression, thinking, _Tony..._

 _What?_

 _You'd still be here with your Iron Man,_ he repeated.

 _Yes..._ Tony replied, not fully comprehending.

 _You'd have your Iron Man. You'd be free by now and on your own. You'd make more Iron Mans and save the day, every day! You would've been a hero…_

 _Steve, that's not–_

 _And I messed it up. No more Iron Man,_ Steve narrated. It was eerie how emotionless he was.

Tong frowned, lying down on the sand so that he could be right beside Steve, _No, Steve. It was a dumb idea to begin with. Who needs an Iron Man?_

* * *

Tony had been leading a cautious Rhodey and a distracted Peter around New York City for the past two hours.

The lieutenant was dressed in full military uniform and full military persona: he huffed his chest out at anyone who looked at him twice. He was more alert than ever, advising which side of town Tony should stick to and which parts he should definitely avoid; Tony, of course, never heeded.

Meanwhile, the junior assistant took pictures of the tall buildings, said "good morning" to everyone he could, and even stopped to scribble things down in his notebook. He could've been mistaken for a tourist. Tony had to literally drag the kid around, pulling him by the arm.

The trio were currently taking a break at some breakfast joint relatively near Times Square.

Peter had his head laid down on the table out of pure exhaustion. Rhodey sipped coffee while writing down in a notepad. And Tony was stirring his coffee and a shitload of creamer with the leg of his sunglasses, staring off into nowhere.

"Tony," began Rhodey, clipping his pen's cap on, "Deputy Barnes said he's in New York or he's dead. You of all people should know how big New York is. I'd say it's less likely to find him alive than to find him de-"

Tony growled deep in his throat.

"I misspoke," Rhodey said, "I just don't know how to explain this, I'm sure you're aware: we just can't-"

"Yes we can."

"...Okay. Okay," Rhodey said, closing his notepad.

A waitress appeared to take their order.

Peter lifted his head from the table, "Just some milk please?"

"Another coffee's fine," Rhodey said.

Tony, however, was not feeling the vibe:

"I'll take half a dozen doughnuts. Make three Boston Creme, one Lemon Creme, one strawberry, and one rainbow sprinkles. Also a cup of doughnut holes."

The waitress blinked slowly. And then she hurried off, clearly concerned about the order. Alternatively, Rhodey was completely unamused.

"Tones."

"Some are for later!"

"... You know what? Okay. You're having one of your days. I'm not going to mess with it."

"Why'd you order milk _,_ Not-Pepper?"

Peter shrugged, "It's good."

"Tony-"

"Not now, Rhodey," Tony said, waving his hand, he turned back to the kid, "Just milk though? Like, all on its own?"

"Yes... Mr. Stark."

"Tony, people drink milk. Milk is a beverage, it's not just for coffee or cereal."

Tony made a face, "Woah. Since when?"

"1.8 million years ago."

The waitress came by with everything, Tony beginning to nurse his doughnuts almost immediately, taking time with each bite. Peter almost looked jealous.

"Hey Rhodey?"

"Yeah, Tones?"

"Where's Mr. Pentagon?"

"What?"

"And the macho macho guy, except he's white."

"Are you talking about Sargent Wilson and Deputy Barnes?"

Tony pointed his finger like when he solves a complex math equation, "That's it! That's them! Where are those guys?"

"Working. They've been deployed."

"Already?"

"Yes. People _work,_ you know," Rhodey said. He sipped from his new coffee, and then said, "Are you aware it's a Sunday?"

Tony nodded, licking the powdered sugar from a finger. Then he wiped his hands on a napkin and said, "My Saturday was taken away. So your Sunday is being taken away."

"Mr. Stark, if I may?" Peter began, raising a hand, still pressing his cheek against the tabletop, "Can we go out looking again? If we continue taking breaks like this, we'll never find Captain Rogers."

"That's what I was talking about," Rhodey said, "Our work ethics is extremely poor. Just _walking_ around New York is the simple worst choice we can make. New York is _big._ Really really big. And there are tons of people, and tons of homeless people. We cannot just scout out this guy like scouting in an Easter egg hunt."

Tony raised a finger, "That's right!" he hailed the waitress, "Can I get some eggs, too? Scrambled. Wait, no, Sunny Side Up."

Peter gave an aggravated huff as he sipped his milk.

Tony turned back to Rhodey, "What'd I do?"

"I'm completely shocked," Rhodey said, his tone dry and static, face expressionless, "We're finding this guy _for you_ and you are contributing nothing to this project. You have done _nothing._ You treat this like it's _nothing._ You're making me and Peter chase our own tails and bend over backwards for you, and you're just sitting there watching," he finished, cracking a knuckle, "I'm completely shocked."

Tony put the Boston Creme down on the plate.

"I've already done my part."

"Tony, what-"

"You'll see."

* * *

By the next hour, the trio were pursuing Times Square. Each of them were checking every alleyway, nook, and cranny that they could. They all additionally asked managers of local stores and public law enforcers for any information. It seemed that no one knew about the soldier, either that or the plain fact that no one _cared_ about their expedition. This made the searching even more exhausting, especially for Peter, who was distracted by every little thing. Even though Peter was fascinated by the sights and sounds of the city, something about what Tony said earlier made him want to focus and find this guy.

Peter's nerves had been off the charts back in the breakfast joint. The monotonous voice, the dead eyes, and the familiarity of 'I've already done my part,' were _terrifying._ Especially compared to what Tony said next, 'You'll see.'

It made Peter think back to yesterday, when his boss had pointed a finger to his chest and bellowed out 'I did this.' Did _what?_ Peter had no idea: they had only been discussing visions when Tony said it.

Tony had such an uncanny way of discussing thoughts and burying messages beneath them. At least, that's what Peter believed; his boss was a genius after all. Either he's manipulating some Da Vinci Code, or he's just messing with Peter. And if all of these messages, if all of these searches, if all of these days wasted trying to find Captain Rogers were little pranks of Tony's, Peter felt he would have every right to quit his job.

He cares about Tony, he really does. He just wants his time working with him to be _real._

The thought of Tony's allegories gave Peter chills, he didn't know why though.

So Peter trailed along with his head held low, arms crossed across his torso, forgetting his want to take notes. After a while, his boss began pulling him along again.

"Keep up, Not-Pepper," Tony said, hurrying to j-walk across a street.

"S-Sorry, Mr. Stark," Peter stammered, "I'm just getting a little claustrophobic with all these people here."

Tony cussed.

"What is it, Tones?" Rhodey asked.

"I hate it when people use the word 'claustrophobic.' Claustrophobia is a legitimate fear, a noun. I hate this about the English language: when nouns turn to adjectives and adjectives turn to verbs."

"Mr. Stark, I didn't mean to offend you, I just-"

"I know I know I know I know, thanks, I got it," Tony said. Peter almost detected a bit of sympathy or literal forgiveness in his tone. Almost.

"Do you have claustrophobia, Not-Pepper?" it was a genuine question, a non-accusing one.

"No sir," Peter said.

"You're not afraid of tight spaces?"

"No, sometimes I just-"

"Everyone's afraid of something, you know."

"That's not it, Mr. Stark, I just feel like I need more oxygen, you know?"

Tony kept walking with his brisk pace, not looking at Peter, "The atmosphere is mostly hydrogen. About 78% is hydrogen."

"Well, how much is oxygen?"

"Around 20, maybe 21%."

"Oh."

They stopped walking to let a taxi cab swerve the corner.

"The Sun has less than 2% oxygen," Tony said.

"Oh. That's neat," Peter hummed in response, a little bored.

"74% is hydrogen, 24% is helium, and oxygen, nickel, and iron are all within that extra percent. The Sun's too busy with all the nuclear fusion crap that it doesn't do much with all the oxygen, nickel, and iron."

"Tony, I thought you were a CEO, not an astronomer," Rhodey said.

"I'm a genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist and I just happen to like the Sun."

"I've noticed that," Rhodey mumbled.

"Yes," Tony said, "But have you noticed _that?"_

He had his hand pointed out to perhaps the single most frightening thing in all of New York State: the famed Times Square Elmo.

Rhodey's jaw dropped, "Not again."

"I hate that guy..." Tony mumbled, fists trembling.

Elmo stood with his back to the staircase overlooking Times Square, right in the center of the block. The bright lights of the city highlighted the red tufts of plastic fur on his suit, making him look demonic. The eyes atop his orange button nose were open and horrific, the eyes weren't even looking in the same direction. His monstrous mouth hung agape. His posture was slumped. And he was looking right at Tony, Rhodey, and Peter.

"I don't get it," Peter said, "What's so bad about Elmo? I mean, he's Elmo!"

Tony grabbed Peter by the shoulders and sat down on his knee, looking Peter straight in the eyes. His grip was incredibly tight, "Not-Pepper, I know you're a Queens kid, so this is hard for you to understand. But here in Times Square, homeless people spend all their money on these suits so that they can charge five bucks for a picture."

"That's not so bad," Peter said.

"It's not. Except for Times Square Elmo. He will _chase you._ "

"No he won't," smiled Peter.

"I'm telling you, he will. Keep your head down and _don't make eye contact!"_

"I think I'll be fine," Peter laughed. He helped his boss up from the ground and dusted off his suit. Peter then adjusted his own suit. With a genuine smile and a nod of the head, Peter waved good-bye to the Times Square Elmo.

Then Elmo stared after Peter. He began to run. Within a few seconds, the Elmo was already right behind Peter, holding up five fingers with mittened hand.

" _Not today!"_ Tony screamed, grabbing Peter's arm and running away. Tony had Peter latching onto his elbow, practically dragging the kid across the entire block. Peter made few attempts to actually run with Tony, he just kept on stumbling with assistance. Rhodey met up with them and grabbed onto Peter's free arm, also leading the kid across Times Square with little resistance.

Tony stopped running once they were off Elmo's territory. He bent over to heave and breathe. So did Rhodey, who was gripping his sides. Peter really did try not to laugh, but he may or may not have giggled a little.

" _This is why the newer Sesame Street sucks! THE ORIGINAL IS SUPERIOR!"_ Tony screamed at the top of his lungs. He kicked a trash bin over.

"That was so scary..." Rhodey mumbled.

"You make it sound like he's a mass murderer," Peter said, helping Rhodey stand up straight.

"Last time that guy attacked us, Tony was actually completely convinced Elmo had a knife in his satchel, so we quite literally ran for our lives. Ain't that right, Tones?" Rhodey asked, cocking his head to the side to look at him.

But Tony wasn't looking back at the lieutenant, his gaze was elsewhere. He was gazing at the big, beautiful intersection of Broadway and Seventh Avenue. Times Square was famous for its bright advertisements, all bright, flashy, and expensive. This was the most expensive set of billboards in the entire world. And they were gorgeous.

Tony's mouth hung wide open. He didn't blink, not once.

"Rhodey," he said, "I want one."

"I think Stark Industries has enough advertisement already," Rhodey commented, "What with the drop of the weapons industry and the take-up on tech, I think we've made enough publicity to-"

"-No. I mean for _him,"_ Tony said. He took a breath, "I want an ad for him. He'll get the biggest slot there is! A giant billboard with his info... So people will see it, and people will find him, or at least, they'll _want_ to find him. There'll be a movement, an entire movement for him. And we can start a hashtag and the movement and everything! And there'll be a cash reward!"

Peter blinked, "That... could work."

Rhodey was less convinced, "Do you know how much it costs to advertise in Times Square?"

"Like a lot?"

"A lot. Somewhere in between one and four million dollars a year. Maybe even more than that."

Tony pointed to the second Toshiba/ADK billboard under the Times Square Ball. It happened to be just about the largest electronic billboard on the building. Not to mention, it was probably the biggest attention grabber.

"I want that one."

"That one's already advertising."

"Tell you what," Tony began, "Not-Pepper, find out what that company pays for that billboard and I'll buy it for 10% more."

" _Tony!"_ Rhodey shouted.

"With my _personal_ money. Not the company card."

"Well-" Rhodey was at a loss for words. Peter went back to taking notes compulsively.

Tony looked back at them now. His expression was deeply invested in his project. He was thinking up a brainstorm, something genius. Rhodey and Peter couldn't scratch the surface of what he was thinking if they tried. Even with whatever brilliant flair was scorching through his head, Tony was smiling. He was happy,

"We're gonna bring him home now, aren't we?"

Neither Rhodey or Peter could respond, because truly, they didn't know.


	8. Do You Remember Me?

**Do You Remember Me?**

The beacon had been finished a few days back. Maybe a week ago. Maybe two weeks ago. Tony couldn't be sure.

The creation was perhaps three meters, maybe closer to ten feet, in height. Tony had forgotten most of his measurement conversions a month or so before; so there was really no telling how large the statue was. But it was quite tall. It also provided excellent shade.

Tony had ordered Steve to rest in the shade. He was to be protected from the Sun at all times of the day. His condition remained constant, but Steve insisted it was improving. Tony saw no improvement. All he saw was a pitiful broken man who puked and shook all the time.

Tony hated him. He really, really hated Steve. This loathing had been building up for months now. Every time Steve insisted he was better, every time he ignored how deep their circumstance became, every time he told those pointless stories, every time he quoted insignificant philosophers, and every time he broke into fevers, murmuring about how _cold_ it was, Tony grew to hate him even more.

With all this hating, Tony could come up with no solution explaining why he continued taking care of the soldier. He hated him, why not just let him die? Why not just save himself from this burden? He kept trying to convince himself to abandon the soldier and leave, but where would that get him? It seemed that something just kept him drawn to Steve. Something had him following morals, good morals that never existed before.

So Tony sat in the shade of his mangled metal man, cradling Steve's head in his lap as the soldier napped.

The day was far too hot to sit still. Tony was squirming inside his his clothing, the arc reactor rubbing uncomfortably against the scratchy fabric. The sweat against his back wasn't cooling him off in the least, if anything, he was even more aggravated. He needed to move, but he knew he couldn't do that, not with Steve draped across his lap like an Italian painting.

He looked down to the soldier in his lap as he started to stir. Steve opened his one good eye, blinking it a little. He sat up with grace, a type of ease that hadn't existed before.

Tony's lap went cool once Steve left it. He no longer felt hot and itchy, instead he felt as light as a feather. The feeling was odd, but enchanting.

Then Steve looked at Tony, right into his eyes. He gave him _that look_ , the alluring, blithe look Tony despised, the one that almost whined for Tony to ignore his pain. His doleful baby blue eye spoke messages: desires of comfort, demands of apologies. It was almost too much for Tony to handle, everything about Steve's look was hypnotic. His cracked skin reflected the sand—how _pretty_ the sand had miraculously become! His bruises were no longer reminders of Tony's failure, but pretty pictures painted against the soldier's skin. His lips were delectable, inviting, and parted open.

Then he kissed him.

All that Tony was aware of was the fact his lips brushed the Steve's, just for a moment. And then they pulled away at the same time.

The soldier wore a faint frown, his expression glazed over. Tony blinked and stammered in response, _I-I'm so sorry, I didn't-_

The soldier was indifferent. He tried to understand.

 _I didn't mean to. I'm not-I'm not in love with you,_ he finally said, _I'm not in love with you. I just…_

The soldier remained impassive, _I understand._

 _No, no Steve. I don't mean that I don't-you know, don't care about you or anything. Because I do! It-It's just the heat, I just-_

 _-I know, I understand. You just needed human contact comfort after everything you've been through. It's natural. I understand._

 _Dammit Steve,_ Tony grumbled, _Shut up. Just stop it._

 _I don't know what-_

 _Shut up!_ Tony screamed, _You_ know _I don't like it when you do that. When you get all wise with me. You_ know. _So stop it!_

Steve was sardonically unchanged, while Tony was anything but that.

 _I have_ tried _to love you, Steve. There. I said it. I've tried to keep you healthy. And keep you safe. And keep you shielded. But you, you treat it like it's nothing. You treat everything here and everything back with Yinsen like_ nothing! _You act like you're unphased, like you're not afraid and like you're not thankful for what I've done for you! Why are you taking all of this for granted? Acting all mighty and wise, pretending you don't give a crap about anything. I hate how you think there's a some reasoning behind everything. I hate how you think you're fine when you're_ so sick, Steve! You're not okay! _I hate how you think everything will be okay, nothing is okay, we are not going to be okay! I need someone who accepts reality and help me through this! Not some disabled dreamer who can't do anything right!_

Tony looked away with a sharp jerk of his head as he finished.

Steve's throat made a strange sound when he started crying.

Tony sprinted down the slope of the sand dune, tumbling when he came to the bottom. He scrambled back onto his feet and began flitting up and down more sand dunes, bolting as fast as he could. He kept running, even as he tripped over his own legs. He ran one, then the next, then the next, then the next, he lost track of how many he scaled.

He didn't stop running until he collapsed at the top of a dune, his lungs stinging with pain. He rolled all the way down the dune, getting a mouthful of sand at rock bottom. Tony coughed up the sand and tried to scale the next dune. He made it halfway up before tumbling back down again.

His clothes were too itchy, too uncomfortable and hot in the Afghan sun. He tore off his shirt and tried dashing up the hill. It wasn't long before he tripped over his injured ankle and fell down. He gripped the sand dune with his two hands and howled. He removed his belt and pants and tried scaling up again. He was dressed only in his boxers when he made it to the top of the dune.

Tony sat down in relief. He was breathing and heaving, his throat closing up out of dryness. He laid back against the scorching sand, gazing up at the Sun. He could feel his exposed skin beginning to burn, but he didn't care.

Tony didn't remember falling asleep. He just remembered hearing something, something mechanic. It was intoxifying. He opened his eyes to reveal a helicopter. The machine was spiraling down to his position, a medic waving her hand out of the door. The blades blew grit and dust all across his sticky skin and hair. The noise it made grew louder and louder as it descended.

Then, two medics grabbed him by the arms, assembling him inside the helicopter and lying him out across an operating table. They were talking to each other, all at once. They were speaking so quickly that Tony couldn't understand them. They were picking up tools and shining lights in his face.

Then one of them asked if there were any others.

Tony nodded. He directed the pilot across the desert, to his beacon.

There was no worse guilt that could ever fall on Tony that day. No pain, so self-loathing, no regret had ever been as strong as they had been that day, in that moment when Tony realized that the beacon stood all by itself.

The medics said he was delusional. They gave him water. They put him on medical drugs. They made him go to sleep. And they took him home. But he went home alone.

* * *

"And three… two… one…" the technician said, holding up his fingers. He clicked his computer mouse, and then breathed a sigh of relief, "Mission accomplished."

The workroom staff erupted into applause, Rhodey, Peter, and Tony clapping along with them. The technician had just finished the design for Tony's project. 'The Lost Dog Poster,' they called it. The design showed Captain Roger's last photo, as well as listing his personal information such as height, eye shade, etcetera, and of course listed where to bring him and who to call if he happened to be found.

Tony was the founder of the hashtag. #BringBackCap was what he called it. The hashtag was taken surprisingly well, actually surpassing Tony's expectations: it went viral.

Local media was covering the topic within half an hour. Facebook and Twitter were already beginning trends for the missing soldier. Even _Good Morning, America_ covered a mention of the project. It was sweet how the community was starting to gather up as a group, to unite for once. What with all the terrible news the United States faces with each coming day, what with constant amounts of rape accusations and government corruption allegations, it's very rare to see people so welcome. The movement certainly made the staff at Stark Industries very happy and proud; all except Tony, who was more than concerned.

But for the most part, it seemed like the investigation was going well for once.

But even amongst the happy clatter, Tony frowned. He peered into the technician's screen, "There should be a cash reward."

"What?" the technician asked. It was hard for anyone to hear over all the clapping and cheering.

Rhodey followed up on the conversation, "I don't think a reward is necessary. This whole movement was designed to renew the life of a military veteran. That's a wonderful thing. It should be enough of a reward as it is."

Tony shook his head, "You're wrong."

"Come again?"

"The people of the world are selfish bastards. Mama Stark taught me that nothing in this world's for free," Tony said. He grabbed the technician's computer mouse, and clicked in the type-box. He punched a few letters, typing out: 'If found, $10,000 reward.'

The technician stared, "That's… very generous, Mr. Stark."

"Hardly," Tony said, "It's just an appeasement."

He glanced at his watch, "Launch the Lost Dog Poster at noon sharp," he said to the technician. It was already half after eleven in the morning. The technician nodded and went on with his work.

Tony spotted Peter chatting with some secretaries on the other side of the room. He crossed over to the group and patted Peter's shoulder from behind.

"Boo," he said.

Peter smiled as he turned to face him, "You didn't scare me in the least."

"Liar," Tony mused, "Listen, I'm gonna take a break. I'll meet up with the group later. If anyone asks for me, tell them I left my oven on and I went to shut it off."

"The oldest trick in the book?"

"Still works."

"Hardly."

"Just do it for me okay, underoos?"

"Yes sir," Peter said, mock-saluting.

Just as Tony turned to leave, Peter tapped his shoulder, "Um, Mr. Stark?"

"What is it?"

"Can we talk when you're done with your break? You, me, and James? We have... something we've been meaning to talk about."

"As long as it's not the 'Birds and the Bees' talk. I'm never giving that one again."

Peter went red, "N-No! Ew, gross, no. … Wait. _Again?"_

"See you later, Not-Pepper! Let's make it two hours, my office in two hours, sound good?" Tony said with a wave. He ran towards the workroom door just as Peter was shouting, " _Who did you-"_

Tony closed the door behind him with a sigh of relief. He never did enjoy work assemblies. Parties were something so much better, where everyone was nasty and happy, and everyone wanted to be there. But business meetings were something else entirely. They were too boring and lacked fun.

Speaking of things that lack fun… Tony pulled out his Stark Phone and clicked on Pepper Potts' contact. The device rang three times before she answered.

" _Hello?"_

"Howdy do, Peppercorn?"

" _Oh, wow. Tony, hi! It's been a while! How long has it been?"_

"A week, I think."

" _And you're still in one piece. I'm thoroughly impressed, Tony. How is your junior assistant?"_

"Annoying."

" _Tony."_

"He's fine. Really, he is. But he is annoying. Maybe just a little bit. But I like him. He's cool."

" _That's good."_

"But he's not you."

" _Tony..."_

"When're you coming back? I've been kinda restless and discombobulated with you gone."

" _At the end of the month, I told you."_

"You _suck,_ Pepper. I can't do stuff for that long!"

" _I beg to differ."_

"Whaddya mean?"

" _I saw your latest project on the news today. The one for the soldier? I think it's great! And—hold on-"_ there was a fumbling noise through the Stark Phone speakers, " _I just got a notification from Good Morning, America. It says you bought a_ Times Square ad _for the project?!"_

"Uh-huh. Are you proud of me?"

" _Well… I'm certainly surprised by your dedication."_

"Yeah, but are you _proud_ of me?"

" _Do I even know this guy? This Captain Rogers guy you're advertising. You've never talked about him before."_

...

" _Tony?"_

"Remember when I said there was another guy back in Af… back overseas? And the guy had blue eyes? Well, that's him."

" _...really?"_

"Yes."

" _You're trying to find him–after all this time? What–after three years?"_

"I never felt like talking about him until now, I don't know why. I just feel like he's close. And I feel like I can get him back."

Tony could almost feel Pepper pinch her temples through the phone.

"What?" he demanded, a little hurt.

" _I just-"_

"You don't think I can find him."

" _... To be completely honest, no. I don't. It's been like three whole years, Tony!"_

"You don't understand, this guy actually means a lot to me, he and I-"

" _You say that about every relationship, too, don't you? Your last relationship lasted two weeks. What makes you think he's even in America? New York of all places, too."_

Tony tried to keep his voice under control, "Pepper. He and I were together in _Afghanistan,"_ he took a breath, "Sorry, I don't think I can talk about this right now. You really don't understand."

" _Tony, I-"_

"I'm gonna put you on hold. I like the blinking noise."

" _Don't you dare-"_

With a click, Tony put the line on hold. Then he hung up on her entirely. She can fuss at him later, he's got stuff to do.

He spent an hour or two working on his pool technique (which, frankly, was nothing at all. He was just trying to improve.) before he decided he should get on with the 'talk.' Whatever that happened to be, it didn't sound too good.

He found them inside his office, Rhodey seated at the bar, Peter seated on one of Tony's many bean bags.

When Tony had redesigned his father's boring, grey office into his own, his main goal had been to merge a rec room with a modern-styled office. He ended up creating a mancave that just happened to have a desk and chair. But the office wasn't completely undignified, in fact, it was very presentable. It just carried a style that screamed 'Tony Stark.'

So that's why it was perfectly reasonable for Tony to have both a bar and bean bags in his office.

Rhodey waved Tony over, sliding a drink over to him. Tony sat at a stool and caught the glass before it slid over the edge. He took a sip, spitting the drink back into the glass when he discovered it was only Ginger Ale.

Peter stifled a laugh.

Rhodey was less amused. He finished his own Ginger Ale, setting it down and taking a breath. There was a break before he spoke, "First, I'd like to apologize. Peter and I didn't mean to scare you with the formality of this intervention."

"You're giving me an intervention?!"

"No, no! We just wanna talk. That's it. Just talk," Rhodey eased, waving his hand.

Tony didn't make eye contact. Instead, he focused on his Ginger Ale glass fogging up.

"Can I start?" Tony asked.

Rhodey blinked, "Oh, I… Sure, go ahead."

"Do you and Not-Pepper really believe there's poisonous mushrooms in the air vents?"

"No. Not anymore."

Rhodey could _swear_ he saw Tony smirk through the glass of his drink as he said, "What made you change your mind?"

"You. You're acting weird about everything. Peter and I know that you know about the visions we've been havin'."

"What is it you actually _want,_ though?"

"Closure."

Peter nodded, "Mr. Stark, we just want to understand, know what's going on. It'd be better for all of us if we knew."

"Then use your brains. All people have them."

"Tony-"

"Any fool would've already figured out that it's _mechanic."_

"Mechanic," Rhodey repeated under his breath.

Peter sat straight up in his bean bag, "So you're really responsible for the visions."

"What was your first clue, Sherlock?"

"Tony, can you please explain-"

"-I mean you _really_ tamed the ocean on that one, Captain Obvious!"

The overhead speakers crackled, " _Mr. Stark?"_

"Yup?" he called back to the speakers instantly, ignoring the whole conversation.

" _Some people are here to see you in the main lobby."_

"Tony, send 'em away, we really need to talk," Rhodey whispered, so that the speakers wouldn't catch his voice.

"Tell 'em to come in later," Tony shouted.

" _No, Mr. Stark, it's urgent. They claim they have Captain Rogers."_

He dropped his glass. It shattered to dozens of tiny pieces on the hardwood floor, like little tufts of snow kissing the ground. He stood from his chair, the snow on his lap tumbling down at the shift. Everything was slow and lucid, like a _feverous dream_ , changing speed at unnatural tempos. The junior assistant surged up slowly, so slowly he could have been moving underwater. The lieutenant was quicker, already by Tony's side, though Tony didn't see him in action.

His office doors were lethargic, opening too hazily. The tiles on the hall floor changed from grey to red to grey all too quickly. Tony couldn't decide if he was inching forward or if the hall was shrinking backwards; nor did he have the time to decide, he was occupied in getting his soldier back.

The main lobby stood out like a beacon against the traditional hallway. It doomed over the banality of the workers, all of whom stood backed against the wall, some with hands over their mouths, some taking pictures, some too surprised to move, but all clamoring and gasping with each other. Then in the middle of the crowd stood the tormentors, the group of three men who brought in the captain, who hung like a ragdoll against the burliest man's arm.

Tony skidded to a halt at the peak of the crowd. He watched in shock.

The soldier was trying to scamper away. He fought against the men with the accuracy of a drunk, punching midair and thrashing around. He clawed at the ones who touched him, the ones who tried to keep him still.

One man grabbed the soldier at the back of his head, holding him in a death grip as he continued thrashing like an animal. The soldier tried throwing kicks and punches at the men who hurt him back. They were too aggressive, too violent with him. They strained his arms against his side as he bucked back. They kept slapping his mouth shut, ordering him to be quiet.

That's when Tony snapped.

"Get off!" he screamed.

"Give up the cash!" the burly man demanded.

"No! Get off of him!" Tony almost threw himself at him, but Rhodey held him still from behind. Tony wrestled back at the lieutenant, but Rhodey kept his grip firm. Tony tried smacking his forehead into Rhodey's, but Rhodey remained unaffected. Rhodey tightened his grip and he stepped on Tony's foot, keeping him grounded.

" _Tony,"_ he hissed in his ear, " _Give them the cash and they'll leave."_

" _They're hurting him..."_ Tony growled back.

" _Tony come on, listen to me for once."_

It took a moment, but Tony finally eased. He stopped fighting back, letting his arms drop to his sides. Rhodey carefully steered off of him, stepping back. Tony shuffled through his pocket, taking out a checkbook. He took his time writing out the 10k. He made it out to the names they gave him.

He held the check tenderly, making no further advancements to the gang. There was a sudden drop of action, but a thickening of tension. Tony's chest churned, his heartbeat choking up his throat. But he kept his poker face. He kept still; it was taunting.

Finally, one of the scoundrels began approaching Tony. No one stopped him. He took hold of the paper, and that's when Tony jerked it back. He latched onto the man's arm and pulled him down so that they were face to face. Tony grimaced looking at the man.

Tony grumbled, "You're gross."

The man shook his head. He was afraid, Tony could tell.

"Don't ever come back to my company. Don't ever come back to my city. And don't _ever_ come back to my soldier or so help me, I'll bring back the Stark Weapons Industry and we'll have a military unit of Time Square Elmos come after you. You understand?" Tony spat. Without waiting for response, he shoved the man back onto the floor, check and all.

The gang hesitated, wavering in their places. Tony stamped down his foot, " _Get out!"_

They ran out in an instant, the glass doors rattling unsteadily. Tony spun around to glare at the crowd, " _All of you! Get out!"_

Then there was the soldier, hunched over on the tile floor. His expression was strained, hurting against the uproar of workers chasing about the place, rushing to follow Tony's order. It seemed as if a circle of protection existed around the two, because the action of the crowding and skirting all around them went unnoticed. All that Tony could see was Steve, who was still enclosing himself from his surroundings in a fetal position.

As the flickering of people passed by in slow-motion, Tony descended on all fours and crawled across the floor. He wrapped a gentle arm around Steve's shoulders. Steve's back lurched in response, but settled as he sat up. He sat on his knees, focusing on Tony.

Tony noticed a medical patch covering Steve's bad eye. But in the open blue eye shined an emotion that could only be described as _remembrance_. Steve was completely familiar, he was at ease, so was Tony. The two sat in peace, just absorbing each other.

Then Tony spoke, "Hi, Steve. I missed you. Do you remember me?"

That's when the tears welled in Steve's eye. He covered his mouth with his hands, emotion flooding his face.

" _Oh my God,"_ he whispered. He pulled Tony into a hug. Steve's arms were thin but pressuring against Tony's back. Tony squeezed in response, he tried not to hurt him, but he couldn't hold back from holding him as tightly as he could. He covered Steve completely, he wouldn't let him get hurt again, never. Not even billions of years from now, not even when the Sun dies. Within that eight minutes sanctuary he would have, he'd hold Steve for every second. He wasn't going to let him go again.


	9. Peter's Fault

**Peter's Fault**

After what felt like mere moments, it was already Tuesday. Tony had apparently spent the entire night with Steve, though it seemed far-fetched. All Tony could recall was getting the soldier back, and now he's already seated at his penthouse dining table, still with the soldier in the early morning.

Tony blinked as he studied Steve's features. He looked different. It was, sadly, a little disappointing that Steve didn't look the same. He no longer had that youthful prettiness. That happy joy in his eyes and face was gone with no trace. Looking at this man, anyone could guess he had this remorse in his gaze his entire life, like it was permanent. But Tony knew that wasn't true.

Steve's body had changed, his face had changed, and it was saddening.

Tony found it odd that Steve's appearance was what he pondered most over. Rather than wondering where Steve had hidden, he wondered where he got the eyepatch. Likewise, he did not break down in tears of joy or shout out across the mountaintops or fuss over Steve's return; instead, Tony just watched him.

Just having Steve here, living, breathing in his own penthouse was strange. It was unfamiliar, but exciting. It gave Tony a hopeful feeling.

He watched as Steve's hands shook, holding his cup of morning tea. He hadn't taken a sip yet, after maybe twenty minutes of sitting at the table.

"Is the tea too hot?" Tony asked, holding his own steaming cup of joe.

The soldier's head snapped up sharply. He didn't speak.

"I asked if the tea was too hot," Tony repeated, "I could put some ice in it. Or milk."

Steve shook his head, looking back to the cup rather than Tony. The billionaire, on the other hand, kept his focus on the soldier.

"I have lots of food," Tony proposed, "You can have anything you'd like, if you're hungry."

The soldier shook his head again. Silence consumed the kitchen table once more. It was not an eerie silence, but far from a comfortable one. Tony felt like he needed to say something, anything. Maybe if he said the right thing, his soldier won't look so weird anymore, and he'll go back to looking like the same soldier Tony took care of.

But that was just wishful thinking.

Reaching across the table, Tony reached for his Stark Phone. He unlocked it and opened his junior assistant's contact info. He sent him a text immediately.

Stark, T: _Not-Pepper!_

Parker, P: _Mr Stark are you ok? Its 8 in the morning! Youre usually not up!_

Stark, T: _Learn some grammar, kid. Period after Mr. Spell o-k-a-y. Apostrophe in it's. Spell out all numbers fewer than twenty. Apostrophe in you're._

Tony grumbled, and then sent another text.

Stark, T: _You're in the building, aren't you? Can you make an appointment with the doctor?_

Parker, P: _Doctor?_

Parker, P: _Are you ok?_

Tony was about to reply, but Peter sent another text before his fingers met the screen.

Parker, P: _Sorry. O-k-a-y. Are you okay?_

Stark, T: _Steve isn't eating._

Parker, P: _You mean the captain? I can talk to the doctor here in the building but I don't know if that's something he deals w. But I can see._

Stark, T: _Thanks._

Tony shut his device off with a click. He looked to Steve, who hadn't moved since Tony's last glance. Steve's eye was still pointed towards the cooling tea in his hands, but the point of focus had vanished. He was just blankly staring, gaze passing straight through his cup.

Tony took this moment to see what Steve was wearing. He didn't have his army jacket, nor any military badges or caps. He did wear army boots, but they appeared to be the type that anyone could purchase at the local thrift store. He wore a white t-shirt far too big on him, the sleeves exposed a good two inches of skin under the armpit, and the shirt went almost down to his knees. Additionally, he had ripped jeans; pants not ripped for style, but torn and mangled by the outside world.

The clothes didn't fit Steve's complexion, Tony noticed. The street-esque outfit probably had something to do with why Steve looked so weird. Not only did the clothes make him look small, but also foreign.

Growing up with rich, conservative parents in one of the most wealthy regions in the world, Tony had never been exposed to much besides the life they wanted for him. He grew up believing that all women wore jewels and all men wore ties, even on weekends. He used to think that all the other kids were just like him: with mansions and butlers and nannies and three meals a day.

Even now, after being exposed to so much of the world, Tony still finds himself uncomfortable with a lot. It wasn't Tony's fault he was a snob–at least, not in his eyes– he was groomed that way.

So having Steve sit there dressed like _that_ made Tony feel itchy all over.

The elevator door opened with a _ping._ The junior assistant walked inside in his usual attire and attitude.

"Good morning, Mr. Stark!" he greeted, walking over to the kitchen where Tony and Steve sat.

Tony ran a hand over his face, grumbling, "Not-Pepper, I _live_ here. What could you possibly want from me?"

"I checked in with the doctor's office. They're not free until about 9:30," Peter explained, "I told them it was for you–that's not really a lie because the appointment _kinda is_ for you!- and they said if they try real hard they can probably squeeze you guys in at 9:00 sharp."

"What time is it now?" Tony muttered, still groggy.

"Like 8:15."

Tony grunted in response, taking a sip of his coffee. The heat from the drink fogged up his glasses. He made a noise of surprise as he wiped off the fog with his shirt sleeve; he didn't remember ever putting them on.

He suddenly realized something. Maybe Steve didn't recognize him with the glasses on; the same was Tony barely recognized Steve with his clothes.

Something sank in his chest. Tony removed the glasses immediately. But Steve wasn't paying attention.

Peter noticed his boss staring at the former captain, "Mr. Stark...?"

Tony sighed, folding up the glasses and sliding them across the table, but said nothing. Tony's junior assistant pulled out the chair next to him and sat down. Then he said something Tony would have never seen coming:

"When my uncle came back from the Navy, my aunt said she hardly recognized him. Not like, what he looks like, but his personality. He had grown sad and angry back when he served. So Aunt May took the time to take care of him, of course, why wouldn't she? But they didn't get along for the longest time.."

Tony stared, wanting him to go on. Peter seemed uncomfortable, but he went on anyway:

"And Aunt May began to feel like it was more of her duty than her love to look after Uncle Ben. Like they almost didn't see each other as husband and wife anymore. So they got mean and angry all the time. Like, really angry. It was scary, just watching them yell at each other… And one day Uncle Ben hit me."

"Peter.." It was the first time he used his name.

The kid swiped a thumb at his eyes, where they were beginning to water up. He smiled, "No, no, Mr. Stark. I'm okay, I promise, I'm okay. Can.. Can I go on?"

Tony was silent, he wasn't sure if he wanted to hear more.

Peter continued anyway, more confidently, "But then after that everything was fine. See, Uncle Ben got pushed to his breaking point, the point where he was just so angry and just so sad that he raised his hand against me. He just let it all go. He wasn't bottling anything up anymore. And things are great now. Aunt May and Uncle Ben are celebrating their forty-first anniversary next month..!"

"Damn."

Peter lightly laughed, "Do you get the point of the story, though?"

"Does he hit you still?" Tony asked rapidly, "Are you safe at home? Are you okay?"

His smile became a little more serious, "Mr. Stark, I'm okay. I promised you, remember?"

"What did your parents do?" Tony asked, "when they found out what your uncle did."

"Oh. I don't.. I don't have parents."

"... I'm sorry."

"Yeah," Peter rubbed the back of his neck, "me too."

There was another silence, Tony and Peter sharing a moment through a wisp of eye contact. It took Tony a while to remember they weren't alone at the table; Steve was watching Peter with understanding in his gaze.

Peter fumbled through his backpack and took out his clipboard. He flipped through the pages, "James is taking the day off. He wanted me to tell you he might take the week off if you give him 'any more hell.'"

"What is he talking about?"

"Well, he might be referring to the fact he had to carry you all the way to your Penthouse last night. Or maybe because you've been taking away his weekends when he doesn't even work for you," Peter said. The sweetness in his tone made his sarcasm sound innocent. And Tony kind of admired that.

He couldn't help but reveal a sliver of a smile, "What about you? Taking today off?"

"No, sir. The hashtag BringBackCap project might be done and over with, but," he dropped his voice to a whisper, "it seems we have some work to do. And I don't mean _any_ offense by that."

"Oh I know," Tony said, also looking back to Steve. He noticed that his cup of tea no longer steamed, it was probably ice-cold; and he still hasn't drunk anything.

"When.. When your aunt had to feed your uncle Billy-"

"-Ben."

"-Whatever. When he needed feeding, what did your aunt do?"

"Sit down and eat with him, mostly," Peter said, "She didn't want him to feel awkward or out of place or anything. But he didn't eat for the first couple days."

Tony frowned, "Okay.."

He stood from the table and went to the fridge. He opened it and peered inside, and then looked back to the soldier, "Is PB&J okay?"

Steve was actually paying attention, though he was confused at the question. It was almost like Tony's question was in another language.

Tony wavered there by the refrigerator, not sure what to do.

Steve remained blank, until a frown fell on his face as he began to understand.

"Don't treat me like a child," Steve whispered. And then he looked back to his tea mug as if nothing happened.

Tony bit back a groan. He shoved the fridge door shut, putting his hands on his hips as he searched for something to say, "I… I'll be right back," he said, heading towards the hallway.

He must have not made it clear that he wanted to be alone, because Peter was following him down the hallway.

"Stop sliding into my dm's kid," Tony said over his shoulder.

Peter blinked, confused, before he said, "Mr. Stark, can I make a suggestion?"

"I don't know _can_ you?"

"Sorry. _May_ I make a suggestion?"

"I don't know _may_ you?"

"Mr. Stark, this is pretty serious."

"Okay okay okay. What?"

Peter fumbled with the straps on his backpack, "I think we should call the police."

"Police? What–Why would we-"

"For the Captain. You know. At least, I think you know. Detaining him here.. it's like.. it doesn't feel right. It feels like we're doing something wrong."

"B.S."

"No, really! There are recovery centers, therapies, retirement homes, tons of places this guy can go to that would-"

"-You're getting annoying, Not-Pepper-"

"-be more than willing to help him! And they're legal, and government funded-"

"-the United States government is as stable as my train of thought, kid-"

"-and he'd be safe there! We could get on with running Stark Industries and-"

"-why on earth would he be safer _there_ than he would _here?!_ -"

"-you could visit him any time you'd like-"

"-I don't see myself making small visits to some trailer park when he has every right to just live here-"

"-That's the thing, though, he doesn't _have_ rights, he's not recognized by the government and no law allows him to just _stay_ here with no permission-"

Tony finally snapped, though his tone was eerily flat, "Are you suggesting giving him away?"

"I-"

"After I _just_ got him back? Are you suggesting that, Not-Pepper?"

Peter glanced down at the floor, "It was just something James and I were discussing. I didn't know that-"

"-You know what?" Tony bellowed, a large amount of typical snarkiness sinking into his voice, "I'm not having this today. I'm just going to sit back, drink some whiskey, and watch TV with Steve, ignoring all of the crap you and Rhodey throw our way."

Peter said nothing. And for a while, neither did Tony. Then something made Tony feel uncomfortable, as he remembered the story Peter told him only moments ago.

Tony crossed his arms and faced the other way, "Sorry, Peter. I didn't mean to- I didn't mean.. well, you know."

"Yeah, I know," Peter mumbled, "I'm sorry too."

"You wanna come with me, when I take Steve to the doctor?" Tony offered.

"Okay," it looked like Peter meant it.

Despite making up, Tony still felt strained. So he made more conversation, as a peace offering, "You probably know more about this stuff than I do, anyway. Doctoral things, military things, I'll bet you're loaded with trivia."

"As if," Peter replied, "You're the one who knows astrology inside and out, and you're only an engineer!"

"I'll have to correct you there, Not-Pepper. I don't like astrology. Just the Sun."

"Say, why is it you know so much stuff about the Sun anyway?"

It was a genuine question. But Tony just about took it as a threat.

"I'll tell you someday."

"No, really! I-"

"-It's actually kinda personal, kid, I mean I don't feel like going into it right now.."

"... So, about-"

"The visions?"

"Yes.. you said they were mechanic. And that's been bothering me, I just, I don't understand how that could be."

"I built them."

Peter's eyes widened, "No."

"Remember my situation? How I didn't want to tell anyone about Steve, because- you know. And so I built something that did it for me."

"I'm not following."

"It's a projector thing, Not-Pepper! It's-It's hard to explain. It transports memories I wanted to share through the fiberwave mediums and displays them where or who's line of sight. And according to certain ones, the memory provides additional recreation for the five senses like feeling and seeing-and.. Holy Maxwell's Equations, it's so hard to explain, you wouldn't understand.."

The kid stood moving his mouth as he thought things through his head.

"Correct me if I'm wrong," Peter began cautiously, "but what you're saying is you built a device that sends the memories you put into other people's heads… right?"

"Pretty much," Tony blinked, impressed.

"And that one time where the people had me underwater.. And my hair was wet.. That was also the machine's fault, right?"

"Yes, it appeals to the five senses, like I-"

"-Why?"

"What?"

"Why would you do that?"

Tony pulled out his watch, a very, very expensive one, and gazed at it.

"Look at the time," he announced, "9:04"

"Mr. Stark-"

"C'mon, no lollygagging. We've got to go now!" Tony said, already heading back to the kitchen to get Steve. But Peter didn't follow him. He remained put.

Tony stopped, looking back to the junior assistant, "C'mon. Let's go now."

Peter shook his head, nothing but black despondence written across his face, "You're always doing this."

"What?"

"You're always running away. Always ignoring me and James. Always avoiding fessing up to a simple truth.."

Now, he had Tony's attention.

"No, that's not-"

"We try _so hard_ to get you to open up to us but you hate the very idea. You're afraid of trusting us.. You're afraid of trusting me."

"Peter…"

" _Why?"_ Peter screamed, " _Why don't you trust me?"_

Tony stood silently, wide-eyed and woeful. Peter just nodded, a sinister, broken grin on his face, "Just like that. You don't say anything."

Peter crossed to the table and retrieved his clipboard and shoved it inside his backpack. He didn't meet Tony's wavering gaze once; but he did look to Steve, nodding to him, before he crossed to the elevator.

He pushed the button. And as Peter waited for the elevator to reach the penthouse floor, he turned back to Tony, "I'm sorry I keep asking questions. I thought you'd appreciate it."

The doors opened and he went inside. Just before the view of Peter's face was closed off, he managed to say, "I'm taking today off."


	10. Tony's Fault

**Tony's Fault**

Neither of them said a word as they walked down the East Wing hallway.

Tony would think that after all the countless silences he and Steve had shared, that he would be more at ease with their moments of no talking. Circumstance happened to be just the opposite.

He was used to rambling on about nonsense and scientific trivia, words flooding out of his mouth for hours at a time. The only times in his life when he didn't speak were when he was told to shut up by his parents (whom he respected but didn't particularly love), and when he was captive in Afghanistan. Those times when he was silent, he was either told to be stop talking, or afraid to start talking.

But these silences with Steve, these freaky gaps of conversation, were different because he _wanted_ to start talking. He wanted to just speak and know that Steve was listening, and know that Steve would talk back. Tony still felt like if he said the right thing Steve wouldn't look so weird anymore, that he wouldn't stare at things anymore, and that he would overall start speaking and loving and _living._ But Tony didn't know what to say.

He wondered if Steve didn't know what to say either. Tony peered over his shoulder to look at the soldier but Steve's face offered no answer. Steve was as muted as ever, just following Tony down the hall.

And that's okay, Tony told himself, Steve's going to the doctor after all.

The door to the doctor's office stood separately from all the other doors in the hall. This one was thick and metal, as if it could have been the door to a meat locker.

Tony gave the handle a tug and the door groaned as it opened. He made a mental note to replace the door with something from the 21st century.

Tony held open the door for Steve, but Steve didn't move. He looked like he was considering going in, but remained tentative. Tony would have been annoyed if he hadn't felt so bad for Steve.

"Go in," Tony said, "It's okay, I'm coming with you."

That finally got the soldier moving.

The doctor's office fully contradicted its metal door; it was warm and... homey. The walls were an earthy shade of bronze, not dirty or polished but muted and glossy beneath the well-hung yellow lights. There were carpets, long, elegant carpets that matched the look of the room. Photos of the workers' children decorated the walls. And it smelled _great._ In all honesty, Tony felt like he just walked into a home-run hair salon.

There was a man seated behind the desk. He looked up from reading paperwork as Tony and Steve entered. He smiled, "Hello Mr. Stark, Captain. Peter readied your appointment. Dr. Romanoff will be with you in a moment."

"Cool beans," Tony said. He took Steve by the arm, walking him to the seating area. They both sat down. Tony proceeded to reach under his velveted chair to grab a magazine from a basket. He handed it to Steve, who took it without word.

Tony had to bite the inside of his cheek so he didn't burst out laughing as he looked around the room. It was ridiculous to think that this was a doctor's office inside of a multibillion-dollar-making robotics manufacturing industry. Sometimes it just felt like everything in Tony's life was a stark contrast.

Ha. Stark.

Steve flipped through the magazine. He wasn't reading, at least not from what Tony could tell, but he was looking at the pictures and feeling the waxy papers. Tony considered grabbing a magazine for himself, but then a woman wearing uniform scrubs approached them.

"We're ready for you now, sir," she greeted with a voice like crisp ice. Her voice would give people chills if it weren't for her pretty face.

Steve looked to Tony, like he was unsure if he could trust her. Tony nodded and stood up, and then so did Steve. The woman held out her hand, but Tony didn't want to shake it, fearing his hand would smell like some weird bleach substance.

"So, uh, where's Doctor Romanoff?" he asked as a diversion topic.

The woman's hand dropped to her side, " _I'm_ Dr. Romanoff."

Tony blushed, but, surprisingly, was unable to form words. He had his mouth open, ready to form some terrible excuse. Tony forced a smile as he began to realize he was dead meat. He knew he was done for. But then something remarkable happened:

Steve started _laughing._

He was giggling, really, just letting a little trickle of joy escape. And it was beautiful. Steve noticed he was blushing and laughing, so he tried cupping a hand over his mouth, but Tony could still hear the laughs. The quiet brood of a man was actually laughing.

His shyness of a laugh triggered that of Dr. Romanoff's, and she began laughing too. She bent her head in snickering. (Her tart laugh matched her perfectly, Tony thought.) And then the man behind the desk, and the other occupants in the waiting room were all laughing.

Tony could swear that everything felt lighter and airy. But his cheeks were still heavy with blushing.

"Holy fuck, Steve, your laugh is so cute," he said without meaning to speak.

The comment made Steve giggle even more; he started biting on his lip to stop himself. And Tony smiled; maybe his soldier was okay after all.

Dr. Romanoff composed herself, taking a breath. She tucked a wisp of red hair behind her ear.

Tony suddenly realized he had no idea how old Dr. Romanoff was. She bore no wrinkles, scars, or freckles. Her fair complexion was that of a model's. Not to mention the gorgeous red hair. But then there were her eyes, her green eyes had such a sharp, deadly point. Her eyes alone made her look over fifty. Tony wanted to ask the doctor her age, but then he remembered that women could only take a certain amount of offensive comments per day.

Tony just might have to stop by tomorrow.

"You can follow me," she said professionally. She led them down a hallway to a door numbered _459._

"Hey!" Tony exclaimed, "That's the year the Sun was born!"

Dr. Romanoff went deadpan, "Excuse me?"

"Four point fifty-nine billion years ago, the Sun transitioned from its nebula stage to a baby star."

"I see," she said. She held the door open for Steve, "Go on in, sir. You can take a seat on the table."

Steve was beginning to understand that it was okay to follow her instructions, since she was awfully friendly and Tony never said anything against her orders. He went in and sat down on the plastic examining table, arms braced holding onto the edge.

The doctor started closing the door. Tony stuck his foot in front of it, getting crushed by the door.

"Excuse me?" he mimicked.

"Oh, I wasn't aware you would be joining us, Mr. Stark," she said, a slight bite in her tone.

"Well, you're aware now. Because I'm joining," he announced, already taking a seat beside the examining table.

Dr. Romanoff took an Advil before turning to face them.

"So," she began, "What am I doing for you today? Your PA didn't specify, Mr. Stark."

"He is not my PA."

"Excuse me," she said yet again.

"You're excused," Tony said, "And today, you're doing a checkup. On Steve."

"Has he just recovered from an illness or is this an annual checkup?" she asked, filing through medical instruments in her closet.

"He's…" Tony tried not to look at Steve. He started fidgeting with the paper atop the table, "you know. Or, I think you know. No, all employees know. You do know. He's the BringBackCap guy."

It took awhile for her to process this. Dr. Romanoff showed a ghost of a smile, glints of understanding in her eyes, "Oh. I see."

She turned back to the closet, taking a stethoscope and fixing it inside her ears, "Let's check you up. Shall we, Captain?"

* * *

Tony had been sent into the reception room after the first ten minutes of the checkup. He thought Dr. Romanoff's decision to dismiss him was bogus. There was no fit reason for him to leave (besides the comment from earlier.) The only reason why Tony was sent out was because Dr. Romanoff had to inspect some 'physical characteristics' of Steve's.

All that means is he had to take off his clothes.

And Tony was quite comfortable with nudity, to no one's surprise. But the doctor insisted that he be sent out to 'assure the comfort of the patient.' So Tony sat in the reception room, hand under his chin, brooding and waiting.

"Hey buddy," Tony called to the receptionist, "How long has it been?"

"How long has what been, Mr. Stark?" he asked, not looking up from his tablet.

"How long 've I been here?"

"About forty-five minutes, sir."

Tony huffed. He looked towards the hallway, which was empty and silent. He began to consider infiltrating the place. It wouldn't be too difficult to barge into room 459, all he would need is a crowbar or something.

He looked back to the receptionist, "Do you have anything heavy or metal in your desk?"

The man held up a stapler.

Tony walked over to the desk, a little swag in his step. He propped his arms on the desktop casually.

"Yeah, but do you have anything heavy and metal but more _lethal?"_

The man put the stapler back inside his drawer. He then took out a paper clip.

Tony narrowed his eyes, "Is this how it's gonna be?"

The receptionist did not reply, nor did he even look at Tony anymore. He was still just reading on his tablet, swiping up every now and again. Still ignoring Tony, he grabbed a coffee mug and sipped.

It was then that Tony realized the picture on the man's mug. It was of a young girl, maybe about seven or eight years old, posing for a picture on a swing set. Her hair was platinum blonde but dyed pink at the ends and pulled back in two ponytails, and she wore a pink dress to match it. She was a cute kid, Tony had to admit; she had a big, happy smile with rosy cheeks.

"Is that your daughter?" Tony asked.

The receptionist pulled the mug away to look at it, "Yes," he said, "No, I didn't mean– No, she's not. That's Billie. My goddaughter."

"Goddaughter," Tony repeated.

"Yeah. I've looked after Billie awhile now, though. She might as well be my biological," he smiled. He was clearly proud; and honestly, Tony was proud too.

Tony found himself thinking back to his junior assistant. Peter didn't live with his biological parents either, he revealed this just a while ago. He lived with his aunt and uncle. And Tony said the thing about Peter's parents…

Poor kid. Tony didn't mean to be insensitive. He didn't mean to be harsh either when they were arguing. He didn't mean for them to argue in the first place. Peter just kept pushing him. He kept pressing in on personal subjects, ones that Tony was afraid of talking about. He just... lashed out. And Peter was just trying to help.

Tony leaned his chin on his arm–the one that was on the table.

"Say," he said to the receptionist, "Do you have any... advice on... young people?"

"You're asking me for... paedophilic advice?"

" _Hell no!_ Just..."

"So, you mean parenting advice."

"Um..."

"It's about Peter, isn't it?"

"Oh no. What'd he tell you?"

"Nothing," the receptionist tilted his glasses, "I could just see it in your eyes."

Tony decided he liked this guy.

There was a clicking sound of a doorknob. Dr. Romanoff stood at the entrance of the hallway, leaning against the wall. She locked eyes with Tony, and beckoned him over with her finger.

"What's up, doc?" he asked as he confronted her.

Despite the joke, there was tension between them. The air as suddenly chilly. And it was tense. When Dr. Romanoff didn't look him in the eye, Tony felt his veins fill with ice.

"Is Steve okay?" he asked, panicked.

Her face carried an overwhelming amount of pity, "He'll be fine with time, I promise."

"Are you sure? Coz if he needs surgery I can afford it. Fuck it, anything. I can afford anything he needs. Surgery? Pills? Stitches? Therapy? Personal trainer? Wheelchair accessible stairs? Three years bedrest? Whatever it is, I got it. I mean if he needs anything at all–"

"-Mr. Stark, please. Stop, before you have a panic attack."

"No, _really,_ I can afford–"

"-He's okay," Dr. Romanoff repeated. There was a sternness in her tone, but sympathy in her green eyes.

"So, Steve is alright?"

"I thought I'd give you the statistics," she said, completely diverting away from his question, "Captain Rogers is developing arthritis, for one thing. There's not much I can do about it, since it appears that he got it genetically. I can give him some probiotics, but that's really all I can do, since his arthritis is young and it would be risky to try any medication yet."

"Okay," Tony noted.

"Secondly," Dr. Romanoff went on, "the captain is severely malnourished. It's... It's beyond unhealthy, the state he's in. It has caused some muscles of his to have grown brittle and weak. In fact, he's torn a hamstring. He needs sustainable, healthy, supporting food with calcium and iron, and a lot of it. Just be sure to not overwhelm him with massive amounts of food or something too unhealthy, even if it fattens him up. Fattening is not the answer, I promise."

Tony nodded. He didn't even remember Steve looking so thin. He didn't look scrawny, did he? Wasn't he big and strong as always?

"And some more things to be noted. Like I said, he's torn a hamstring. His right one. His right ankle is also broken, it doesn't need surgery, but I did put a cast and boot on it. There are a couple of bruises and scrapes all over, but nothing that won't heal soon. And then there's... his neck," she stared off for a moment, and then composed herself again, "Excuse me. Mr. Stark, the captain's throat is badly injured. Hurt by something external. It seems as if his vocal cords might require surgery within a month or so, if they don't start healing. He hasn't talked too much, has he? Talking will strain him even further."

"Oh," was all Tony could say.

All morning, Tony had tried getting Steve to talk. He wanted so badly to talk to Steve and have Steve _talk back._ He wanted to hear those stories again, all of the useless trivia on literature, all those promises that they would make it out of the cave; he wanted to hear them all again. He waited three years for it. And now he'll have to wait even more.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair at all. He wanted Steve to talk to him and now he can't. Just because someone says so, he can't. Tony fisted his pockets.

"Oh," he repeated.

Dr. Romanoff noticed the distraught look on his face. She placed a hand on his shoulder, "Hey, I know it's rough, I know. He'll be okay."

As if. As if she knew. She didn't know. She couldn't understand what Tony wanted. Rhodey certainly didn't understand either. Peter didn't understand. Not even Pepper understood; she proved this over the phone call two days ago. Tony was the only one who knew what he wanted and that was to have his soldier back.

Tony had Steve. But Steve was different from the soldier. Steve was just a hollow shell of what he used to be. Just a memory.

Tony would have to coax Steve back into his old self. Either that or let Steve be Steve and hope for the best. Or perhaps, just leave him. He hated him, why not just let him die here in the desert? Why not just save himself from this burden? He kept trying to convince himself to abandon the soldier and leave, but where would that get him?

Tony internally slapped himself. Those were old memories, old thoughts that should no longer exist. He didn't think like that, no, no, no. He liked Steve. He did. He liked Steve.

Dr. Romanoff was looking at him peculiarly.

He decided to ask something unrelated, "So did you take a look behind the eyepatch? What was it like? Was the eye still there or was it empty?"

She blinked, "Oh. I did look, yes. No, no there isn't an eye anymore. I didn't hesitate to disinfect the area, if that's what you're asking."

"How'd he lose his eye? Was it eaten by a seagull or did he do something dumb like trip over a fork?"

"Mr. Stark, there is no fathomable way I am able to know the answer to that question. But I presume it was blunt trauma."

Tony fumbled fists in his pockets again. She was right. It had been blunt trauma. They beat him up. Those dirty Yinsen bastards…

"Okay," Tony said, "So, what's he need?"

"I'm prescribing probiotics for his arthritis, for one thing," Dr. Romanoff began, reading off her checklist, "Anti-inflammatory painkillers will help his torn hamstring and ankle, as well as propping them up on a pillow or couch. Also three meals a day plus snacks, and warm drinks for his throat. Cough drops should come in handy, but just know they're not medication and therefore won't fix anything."

"Good, that's-that's good. Yeah."

"Just know that despite his ailments, Captain Rogers is not on bedrest. He is strong, but he needs to be stronger. He requires easy exercises. Making sure he stays active is very important. He shouldn't do anything that strains him, if he's in pain, stop immediately. But Captain Rogers needs to start taking care of himself again."

Tony wavered in his spot, "...won't that hurt him?"

"It might," she answered softly, "But it's what's needed."

"...okay."

"And again, keep him from talking too much. In a month bring him by again and I can take a look at his throat. We can see what he needs then."

That shouldn't be a problem. The guy never spoke. Not once did he care enough to try to talk back to Tony. He just ignored him. It seemed he ignored him all the time, here at the doctor's office, down the hall, at breakfast, and—

Wait, that wasn't right. Steve has spoken at breakfast. He told Tony not to treat him like a child.

 _Oh sweet Euler's Method…_ Steve spoke because of Tony. It was all his fault. Tony was making him feel dumb and helpless, and he spoke out against it. Steve hurt his throat, his throat that was not supposed to get hurt. It was all Tony's fault. Steve was going to get sick now or go to the hospital or never speak again or die and it would all be _Tony's fault._

"Mr. Stark?" Dr. Romanoff repeated, shaking his shoulder a little. He was still zoned out. She gave his shoulder a particularly tough squeeze, like a pinch, and he snapped back immediately.

"Ow!" he exclaimed, shaking her shoulder off.

"Mr. Stark, what's wrong with you?"

"He spoke."

Those strict green eyes of hers were consumed with raw emotion. She almost looked vulnerable. Almost, "Did you say he spoke?"

Tony wrapped his arms around his stomach, "I'm sorry, I didn't–It's all my fault because–well, you know, I was making PB&J and he didn't want it, or I guess he didn't want the service, you know I was treating him weird. And I kept pushing him to talk, I didn't know he wasn't supposed to at the time! I didn't! And because of that there was the thing where I was rude and he talked and–"

Dr. Romanoff gave his shoulder another grip, "Mr. Stark, if it was just once I think he'll be fine."

He realized his arms were real tight around his waist, like he was caving in on himself. He tried fisting his pockets again but his hands were too jittery, "You think he'll be fine...?"

"He will."

Now that his torso was free, he took a deep breath. It was easier to breathe, as if the tension had suddenly dissipated. He didn't hurt anymore. Steve will be fine, the doctor said so. He nodded to the woman beside him, "Thanks, doc."

She nodded back, fully calm, "You may call me Natasha."

"May I call you Natalie?"

"Never mind. You may call me Doctor Romanoff."

"Crap."

She almost smiled, "I'll hand you some paperwork for the prescriptions, and you can pick them up tomorrow morning. Captain Rogers is free to go."

"Cool. Thanks, sweetheart."

"Don't you dare call me that."

"But I love you."

"This comes from the man whose relationships last for only weeks. Sometimes days. Weren't you once engaged for 48 hours?"

"That's me," Tony said over his shoulder, already making his way towards room 459.

"Aren't you ashamed? Embarrassed?"

"Quite a bit, yeah."

"Oh, and Mr. Stark?"

He turned to face her, "Yeah?"

"You really should make up with Mr. Parker," she said, that same sympathy sinking back into her expression, "he deserves it."

"I know he does," Tony admitted, stuffing his fists back into his pockets. Then, he asked, "Was he upset?"

Dr. Romanoff didn't answer. She, instead, went towards the receptionist, her boot heels clicking down the hall. That left Tony alone to fetch his soldier and think about how he was going to take care of the two of them.


	11. A Concept of Women and Cooking

**A Concept of Women and Cooking**

That Doctor Romanoff was certainly something. Beautiful, scary, smart, a redhead; in a nutshell, she was pretty much just Pepper without freckles. And Tony found that both amusing and slightly horrifying. Amusing because he now had not one, but _two_ Peppers he could bother whenever he wanted, but horrifying because he now had not one, but _two_ Peppers who would always have better reasoning over him. Their judgement would always be right. They both had a moral compass that surpassed Tony's by a long-shot.

Two resilient minds in two powerful women should be a good thing. But to Tony, it was anything but a good thing. It meant that they now had the potential to gang up on him and _actually_ make him heed their advice. Obeying Pepper's nagging rules was scary, and Tony was not prepared for that.

However, the even scarier part of listening to Pepper was that he would have to also listen to the second Pepper: Dr. Natasha Romanoff. Granted, the doctor gave lots of helpful insight, albeit, but she also gave two instructions which spelled out Doomsday for Tony.

Number one rule being: He was not allowed to fatten Steve up.

'Just be sure to not overwhelm him with massive amounts of food,' she had said, reading off her checklist as if this were something unimportant, as if she gave orders to wounded military captains every day, 'or something too unhealthy, even if it fattens him up. Fattening is not the answer, I promise.' The doctor's advice was… scary, for lack of better terms.

At first, Tony thought she was crazy, telling him not to 'fatten him up' and that he was 'malnourished.' To Tony, Steve was still the big, masculine army dude who looked like he popped right out of a G.I. Joe Doll box. Steve still resembled Tony's earliest memories of him, back when he was first captured and brought to Yinsen's cave, as if he was a perfectly preserved photograph. But then, after Dr. Romanoff's suggestion, Tony decided to look at Steve, really look at him, not the American army poster child, but the injured kid from Brooklyn.

And, looking at him, Tony discovered that Dr. Romanoff was right. Steve really had changed. It wasn't just his clothes, it was his yellowed skin, his lack of muscle, his matted fading hair, and his stubbly chin that changed him. And it gave Tony the creeps.

He subjected himself to traumatic memories and pressures for two weeks to get his soldier back, and all Tony got was a sad, quiet figure who he wasn't allowed to talk to. And Tony didn't want it.

So, he gave Steve vegetables, protein, and grains, and offered dairy and fruits occasionally, all cooked and decorated to perfection by some of the most prestigious chefs in the nation. But Steve still didn't eat; not much anyway. Within the few days that they had spent together, Tony never saw Steve eat an entire meal. Peter had said something about what his aunt did for his uncle to get him to eat, but Tony didn't remember; he was too preoccupied in trying to figure out what the hell to do with Steve. He really, really, _really_ , wanted to give him a five-star buffet of twenty courses of meals, a feast fit for ten kings. The only thing holding him back from doing so was not the price, it was Pepper #2.

The second rule the devil-of-a-woman gave him was to reconcile with his junior assistant.

Tony didn't realize it until Dr. Romanoff pointed it out, but he _missed_ Peter. He didn't miss him the hopeless romantic way that he missed his actual assistant, Pepper, but in a slight… paternal way. He missed the shadow over his shoulder, constantly fawning over him. He missed how that tiny, shrill voice of Peter's would offer coffee or whiskey no matter what time of day. He missed the way Peter would get in the way, and how Tony would have to swerve around sharp corners not to bump into him. He missed that stupid red and black backpack with the stupid blue straps and the stupid yellow zippers that adorned it. The kid liked Princess Aurora, ha! Peter was priceless.

It's been a while now since Tony has last seen him, four days maybe. And that means it's been two weeks since Pepper left. And that means it will be two weeks until she returns. And that means Peter will have two weeks before he's out of the job.

What was it Tony said that got Peter to walk out in the first place? He didn't say anything harmful, he knows he didn't. Tony didn't fully understand why his junior assistant was so upset. He thought he understood. But then, Peter didn't show up for work since he left. So Tony must have said something worse than what he thought he said, either that or Peter was just stubborn.

All millennials are stubborn. But wasn't the kid from Generation Z?

Tony slammed a fist down on the kitchen counter. Everything was difficult and confusing, especially since he was trying to cook while sorting all of this out.

Steve sat straight up at the noise of Tony's fist hitting marble. He had been peacefully resting on the sofa before, but now he looked like a deer in the headlights.

Tony waved him off, "Lie back down, Steve. I just hit the counter," he said. He pounded the counter a few more times, looking at him, "See? No harm done."

Steve's surprised expression softened. However, he still looked unconvinced.

Tony hit the counter with more ferocity, "It's marble, Steve. It's Lux Touch marble, the best there is. By both Pietra Firma and John Harwood Designs! It's the most expensive out there! It's not hurting me, and I'm not hurting it."

Steve nodded slowly, sinking back down onto the sofa, facing upwards with his arms crossed over his chest. Tony took hold of his kitchen knife and gave the marble a few nicks with it.

"I'd have to be made o' metal to hurt this crap," he muttered to himself.

"What happened to your iron man?"

It was Steve who spoke.

Tony dropped the kitchen knife. For a moment, he was completely still. Anxiety began to flood his thoughts slowly, so slowly and painfully it felt like molasses. He went to Steve's side at the sofa; the movement almost giving him whiplash. He cupped his quivering hand over Steve's mouth, "Ssh!" he hissed, his voice threatening to break, "You... you're not supposed to talk. No talking, okay? What, did the doctor not tell you? That Russian Empress... she... Dr. Romanoff says you shouldn't talk, Steve. It's bad for you."

Steve nodded. He took hold of Tony's hand and carefully lifted it off of his mouth. He took Tony's grip in his, intertwining their fingers like a true friend, like he really understood.

Tony would have smiled if he hadn't been filled with so much anxious energy. But he knew Steve didn't really understand, but he was trying to, and that almost made him proud. He shook their hands professionally. Steve moved to one side of the sofa, leaving the other cushion for Tony to sit down on.

"Now... about the iron man," Tony said, slouching down on the sofa, "The Mark, it–Wait, do you really not remember, Steve?"

Steve remained still.

"Geez. Okay–Geez, okay, um… So we were outside. And it was really hot, and you were really sick. Except you were walking and so I yelled at you–But not like in a mean way, at least I don't think it was in a mean way. Anyway, you said let's build a statue, a beacon so that people could see it from long ways away and come find us. So we took the Mark apart and... you know, reconstituted it as a big, tall… doohickey. But it was really hard, 'cause it was so freaking hot. Like, I mean, in the desert, the Sun seems to get a million times hotter and a million times bigger. You know, the sun is actually becoming ten percent more luminous every billion years. In five billion years, it'll be so hot and intense that all the water on Earth would've melted away, and everything will be dead, and it'll blow up and destroy the entire planet. And… yeah, that's what happened to the Mark, I guess."

Steve looked distraught. Tony couldn't guess why, since Steve barely helped construct the beacon. He really only rested in its shade.

Something tugged at Tony's heartstrings as he began to remember the last time he saw Steve. After they... kissed... Tony got mad and ran away. He had only been taking time to himself, since he knew Steve was unable to follow him. He was going to come back, really he was. He had only been taking time to himself to think, and planned to return shortly afterwards.

But then the helicopter came and rescued him. Tony and the helicopter team flew back to the beacon to find it deserted. It had been all alone in the desert. Steve had been nowhere to be found. Until two weeks ago. He miraculously went from a near-death condition in the middle of an Afghan desert to walking upright somewhere in New York State.

Tony's stomach filled with lead, "Where have you been, Steve?"

 _"Give it to me, baby. Uh-huh! Uh-huh! Give it to me, baby. Uh-huh! Uh-huh! Give it to me, baby. Uh-huh! Uh-huh! And all the girls say I'm pretty fly for a white guy."_

Oh yeah. Tony had totally forgotten he set that song as his ringtone for Pepper. Pepper #1.

He held up his finger to Steve, "One second please."

Then he hurried back into the kitchen where he left his phone on the Lux Touch marble. He swiped the screen and pressed the phone to his ear, "Pepper guess what!"

 _"Tony, I'm calling about–What is it?"_

"No, you have to guess."

 _"Okay, umm… you learned to tie a tie?"_

"Nope," he added a pop on the 'p.'

 _"You found some new crazy foreign alcoholic drink?"_

"Nope."

 _"You went to a conference without pants again?"_

"Yes, but no. That's not what I'm talking about."

 _"You made up with Mr. Parker?"_

"No. Why is it everyone knows about that?"

 _"Tony, just tell me."_

"You have a twin!"

 _"Is that all?"_ her tone was dry and flat.

"I guess? I don't know, I thought you'd like to know you were separated at birth from your long lost twin sister," Tony muttered, going back to boiling rice on the stove, stirring the mixture with his kitchen knife (because all the spoons seem to have disappeared.)

 _"Tony, I'd like to talk about Captain Rogers."_

The sentence caught him off-guard. He was so distracted, in fact, that he dropped the kitchen knife into the boiling rice.

"Crap," he muttered. He grabbed a washcloth and tried reaching around the rim of the pot.

 _"Tony? Are you okay?"_

"Yeah. Just dropped a knife."

 _"Oh my God! Are you hurt?!"_

"Nooooo. I just dropped a knife. Into some rice."

 _"Rice? Tony, don't tell me you're–"_

"–Cooking? Most certainly. The chefs have a day off and I don't trust the suchefs enough to–"

 _"–You've never cooked before."_

"Well today I felt like it. It's a good day to cook! What is it, Saturday?"

 _"Friday."_

"Even better."

 _"You don't know how to cook."_

"I just... felt like it today, okay?"

 _"Are you cooking for Captain Rogers?"_

His fingers got burnt through the washcloth. Tony pulled his hand back on instinct, trying not to shout out in pain. He bit his tongue as he moved to run his fingers under cold water.

"Yeah. I am. Jealous?" he asked, his fingers feeling like hot ice under the running water.

 _"I just–I'm proud of you. No, really, I am."_

Tony nodded, mostly to himself, "So, whatcha wanna talk about? About him, I mean."

 _"I just wanted to apologize for being so brash on Sunday, I just didn't understand that... well, you know. I still don't understand what's going on with you and him right now and I'd like to sort it out."_

"When you say 'sort it out…'"

 _"I mean establish something stable. I can put your captain in whatever proper facility he needs, and then shape you back into business. And I quite literally mean 'business.' You have many meetings and calls that you've missed within the last two weeks, and you'll certainly have more that–"_

"...Pepper."

 _"What?"_

"You really don't understand, do you?"

 _"No, Tony, I don't understand. You haven't been particularly open about any of this for years! What makes you think I can suddenly understand this stunt you're trying to pull off?"_

"Okay, first of all, it's not a stunt. I haven't tried popping a wheelie since you left, sweetheart. Secondly, I explained this already. Sort of. I explained the logistics, and that should be enough."

 _"I think you don't know what I'm talking about. I'm talking about your relationship with the captain."_

"I am too," Tony said. His fingers were throbbing now, but no longer felt like ice and fire at the same time. He turned the stove down to its coolest level before grabbing a dry oven mitt and trying for the knife again.

Pepper let out a sigh from the other line, _"Well, Tony, not everyone is a genius. Try explaining again."_

Tony didn't point out that no one had to be a genius to understand what one person can mean to another person. In fact, geniuses understand human interactions way less than the average joe. It wasn't rocket science–Tony should know, he works with rocket science– it's just human emotions.

"He was with me in Afghanistan," he began slowly, "and we kept each other alive. It was like the Hunger Games, I guess. Where I'm Katniss and he's Peeta because I'm a badass and he's not in peak physical condition."

 _"Don't tell me you fell in love."_

 _"No!_ What makes you say that?!"

 _"You said it was like the Hunger Games. Katniss and Peeta fall in love."_

"That was just a metaphor!"

 _"It was a simile."_

"I was saying that because I kept him alive. He was sick and hurt. And I helped him," his heart was beating too quickly. He hated this kind of talk, "And for the record, Gale and Katniss were actually in love. Katniss only married Peeta because it was her civil duty."

 _"But Katniss bore Peeta's children."_

"What?!"

 _"Haven't you read the epilogue of the last book? They have two kids."_

"Oh," Tony said, dumbfounded, "Damn. Well, I assure you I haven't birthed any babies within the last couple of years."

 _"Good to know."_

There was a beat. Pepper took an audible breath, _"So just refresher: You two are not secret boyfriends."_

"Correct," Tony said, finally beginning to feel the knife through the oven mitt, "I mean, we did kiss."

 _"What!?"_

His hands slipped into the boiling water once again and he pulled them back in pain. Being burnt the second time hurt _far_ worse than the first time. Tony pulled open the freezer door, taking a tub of ice cream and burying his hands inside; all while muttering curse words.

 _"Tony? Still there?"_

"Yeah..." he groaned, his fingers squishing the cold, relieving ice cream, "Still here. Forty-two years and counting."

 _"Did you kiss the captain?"_ Pepper demanded, her voice sounded more concerned than scolding.

"Not really," Tony admitted, "it was like–I don't know, it was like our lips brushed for a second. Back in the desert. It was nothing romantic, I swear. I mean he was sick, he had a fever he wasn't thinking straight. Hell, _I_ wasn't thinking straight. The heat was driving me nuts."

 _"So you two are... friends."_

"I wouldn't even say that. We're survivors in the buddy-system. That's it."

 _"This next question is non-accusatory, Tony, it's just so I know how to handle this–"_

"–Pepper, you don't need to handle anything, we're oka–"

 _"–What's the difference between the captain and your other friends? What is it that makes him more important to you?"_

"... Holy shit, Pepper do you smell smoke?"

 _"Tony, I'm not–"_

"–Gotta go."

 _"Wait! I–"_

"–Bye bye, Birdie, I love you," he hung up before running to where the burnt rice overflowed the pot, water and black flakes boiling over the top. Panicked, Tony shut the stove off and put on some dry oven mitts. He carried the pot over to the sink and emptied it, watching as his dinner swirled down the drain.

He sighed, throwing off the oven mitts into the sink.

Running fingers through his hair, Tony realized they were still sticky, cold, and blistering all at the same time from the ice cream. So he ran his hands over his face, sticky and all, out of exhaustion and disappointment.

Pepper always made things difficult. Surely she was only trying to help, but she just didn't respect Tony's privacy sometimes. And now Tony had two Peppers.

"Women are nuts," he muttered.

Steve gave him a nasty look. He was peering over the back of the sofa, arms crossed over the top. He had been listening to the entire conversation.

"Please tell me you're upset about dinner, and not my second sexist remark of this week."

Steve held up three fingers.

"Three... What? You mean I said three sexist things? When did I–Ohhhhh. Yeah. You're right. Three. My bad," Tony said, moving to sit back down next to Steve.

On Tuesday, when Tony went back to Dr. Romanoff's office to pick up Steve's medicine, Tony took the moment to ask the question that had been bothering him. He asked Dr. Romanoff how old she was. Now, normally, that's a question anyone can tolerate and ask back and forth with no problem. But Dr. Romanoff was a woman. And that was the second most offensive question anyone could ask a woman, right after asking what her weight was.

Dr. Romanoff squeezed his hand a little too tightly on their parting handshake. She never told him the answer.

Tony looked at the new fingernail scars on his hands, right next to the heat blisters from the rice epidemic. He had managed to burn half of the rice to crisps, and drown the other half of rice in boiling water. Maybe Friday wasn't the best day to cook.

"Sorry I ruined dinner, Steve," Tony muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, "I just figured that if _I_ made something that none of those chefs did, you would eat it."

Steve nodded. He didn't say anything. Of course he didn't speak, he wasn't allowed to.

Tony slouched in his seat. He didn't make eye contact, "I never thought I'd see the day when Tony Stark goes hungry."

Steve gave a look.

"Except for, yeah, except for Afghanistan. Those days don't count."

There was a _ping_ at the elevator. With barely any noise, the doors slid apart. The junior assistant stood in the door frame, plastic bags in each hand. He wore a hoodie, with an expression of both embarrassment and unease.

"Hi, Mr. Stark," he said, eyes tilted down at the floor. He held up one of the bags, "Ms. Potts said you cooked."

Tony felt a lump rise in his throat. It hurt when he gulped, "Hi."

"Hi," he said again. He wavered in his spot, "Can... May I come in?"

"Uh. Yeah… Yeah, sure. Come on in," Tony stammered blindly. He scooted over to make room for Peter on the sofa. He was brushing up right against Steve, embarrassing heat and tension forming between them.

Then Peter took a seat on the loveseat right across from them, and Tony realized how horrifyingly awkward the scene had become.

"What, is it my smell? Makes sense. I mean, I haven't showered since-" he cut off; he was making the situation worse. He scooted away from Steve to his first spot, and began to drum his fingers without rhythm in his lap.

In the loveseat, Peter was slouching. He set the bags on the table, and began to open the boxes inside.

"I brought Chinese food," he said with no emotion. He set four styrofoam boxes onto the coffee table between them, followed by three bottled soft drinks, bottled water, some chopsticks, and paper straws. It was an entire meal; a meal that Peter paid for.

Tony stopped himself before he opened a box, "Did Pepper tell you to bring food?"

"Pepper?"

"Ginny. Virgina. Ms. Potts."

"Oh, yeah," Peter said, "She did."

"Remind me to thank her," Tony said, opening a box of steamed dumplings.

"Already did," the junior assistant said. He pulled out an agenda from his pocket. It was red and gold on the cover. He handed it to Tony, opening the page to the current week, "There's your schedule for this week. You thank her tomorrow morning at ten."

Tony didn't suppress a small smile of gratitude, "Thanks."

"Yeah. You're welcome."  
"Look," Tony began, "Peter, I-"

"-It's okay, Mr. Stark. We don't need to talk about it right now," he said quietly. He pointed a chopstick to Steve, trying to look incognito. He clearly meant that he wanted a private talk with Tony.

Tony agreed, having the captain around would just make things awkward, "Another time then."

There was a beat.

"Listen... it's getting late, I'd better go," Peter said, already standing up, zipping up his hoodie.

"Go?" Tony repeated, getting up after him, "No, you don't have to. You can stay for dinner. Steve doesn't mind."

"No–no, really, I shouldn't. I have to help my aunt tonight–" he stopped himself, already at the elevator door with his fingers poised at the button.

"She can come over too, if that's what you want," Tony said, following after him.

"Mr. Stark, no–just–just, no, not tonight. I'm going home now. I can come back another time," Peter confessed, his attention absent, "just not tonight."

He didn't move, and for a moment, neither did Tony. They stood, neither of them talking nor even looking at each other. Then Tony reached over and pressed the elevator button dourly.

"Okay," Tony said, "go."

Nothing more was said, and frankly, nothing more needed to be said. Peter left, and Tony returned to his dinner. And that was the end of it.

* * *

 **"Pretty Fly (For a White Guy)" by The Offspring. "The** **Hunger Games Trilogy" by Suzanne Collins.**


	12. Confusion

**Author's Note: Special thanks to** Krystaltheelemental **for staying with this story since the beginning. Your constant reviews and support make this story possible, so thank you!  
Additionally, all readers, make sure to check out the note in **Chapter 1-Prologue **about the summary. Thank you!  
** **Thirdly, there is a mild reference to chapter six in here. Make sure you read it before proceeding.** **  
**

* * *

 **Confusion**

Saturday morning started just as it always did, with Tony waking up at the blaring ringing of his Stark Phone. He was drawn across his massive bed in an awkward angle, with one foot hanging off the side. Barely moving, he sluggishly slew his arm across his nightstand to grab the phone. He brought the screen to his face.

It was 9:55; quite early for Tony. His junior assistant had left him an email message. It read:

Reminder: You thank Ms. Potts in five minutes. You have a call with the sales department manager at noon. James invited you out sometime in the evening.

Tony groaned as he squinted his eyes. The screen was far too bright for the morning. Then he yawned and typed out his response:

Thanks, kid.

Tony waited for Peter to respond, but no messages came. He was a little hurt by that. He started to feel sickly all over again.

He needed coffee. Tony slumped out of bed, cracking his back and his neck. He felt stiff and sleepy all over.

After last night's Chinese dinner, Tony had curled himself up in his bedsheets, pulled out his Stark Phone, and watched videos until three in the morning. He actually had been doing a good thing: he was researching physical therapy. For Steve's sake. So initially, he spent five hours watching bubbly skinny women in leg warmers talk about "balancing your inner core." Or something. He wasn't really listening.

Today was the day that he was maybe probably possibly going to work on another one of Steve's prescriptions: physical therapy. But Tony was more than hesitant. He was probably ten years older than Steve, and he was going to have to demonstrate movements; special moves that he was most likely unable to do at the age of forty-two.

But on the plus side, he wasn't running laps around a field track. He was going to do simple stretches. Should be a piece of cake. Right?

Tony groaned again. He really needed coffee. He dragged his feet to the kitchen and reluctantly began firing up his hand-built espresso machine.

There had once been a time, short after when Tony announced that Stark Industries would drop their weapons manufacturing department, when Tony went through a strange phase. In order to keep the company stocks high, he proposed plenty of project ideas; things that Stark Industries could pick up on to fill their income gap. Way before deciding on robotics, he suggested things like kitchen appliances, movie theater software, even sound systems, and many more things he'd like to forget about.

And of course for every proposition, Tony had to provide visuals.

On the plus side of his strange endeavor, he ended up owning all of the scrapped projects; hence, the coffee machine. On the down side, Tony was stuck with the terrible memory of carrying a refrigerator around, up and down stairs, in and out of rooms, for three hours straight. At least he had Rhodey's help with the refrigerator. But still, Tony was wearing a suit at the time. They both were.

Rhodey hadn't shown up since he took the day off. In all honesty, Rhodey deserved a day off. He didn't even work for him.

The coffee machine made some whirring and clicking noises, and then began to pour the rich black liquid into a large mug. The coffee had three shots, just how Tony liked it. It was simple Colombian brewed coffee. The one expensive thing Tony could go without was expensive coffee. It was usually too rich and just… gross.

At a convention where he was trying to promote his Stark Industries Instant Coffee and Espresso Maker, some snob-of-a-product-tester asked for Kopi Luwak coffee. Tony just threw some sugar into a black Egyptian brew and hoped for the best result. The tester hated it, and the project was scrapped weeks later.

After some research, Tony discovered why the test failed. Apparently Kopi Luwak was a kind of coffee in which the coffee beans get digested by an Indonesian cat and then torn out of the cat droppings. And it sells as the fourth most expensive coffee in the world.

After that, Tony appreciated cheap gas station coffee way more than the average man.

As the normal, cheap, delicious coffee poured out of the machine, Tony took the time to glance at the digital clock adorning the wall. With bright red numbers, it read 10:02. Tony grumbled. He was already late.

Since when were thank-yous scheduled? It was tedious and, frankly, unnecessary.

Where was that stupid planner of Peter's anyway?

Tony began to look around the kitchen, and, finding nothing, moved on to the living room. He lifted a pillow and looked underneath. Tony grumbled in frustration and moved to the loveseat, he fished his hand through the cushions. Something teased his fingers. He grabbed onto the object and pulled it out, revealing a shiny metal chain. Steve's dog tags.

Without thinking, Tony balled the tags up inside his fist and hurled them across the room. They collided with the wall, and then slid down to the expensive hardwood floor.

Peter must have brought them with him when he dropped off dinner last night.

Sitting back down on the loveseat with the misplaced cushions, Tony began to run his fingers through his hair. He gripped onto the dark brown tufts and curled into himself. He was almost ripping out the hair from his head; it certainly felt like he was. Tony stared dead-ahead with passive anger boiling inside of him.

Tony was so confused. He laid back against the loveseat and took a deep breath. Maybe if he just closed his eyes, he could rest here for a little bit.

Evidently, he could not. Steve was shaking him awake only just after Tony closed his eyes. He shook Tony's arm with trepidation, as if he feared his own grip. Tony mewled a good-morning yawn and batted away Steve's hands. He rolled his stiff shoulders back.

"How 'bout some coffee, Cap?" Tony asked.

Steve brought Tony his coffee mug from earlier; it was barely touched. The coffee had gone cold.

Tony frowned, remembering the agenda Peter emailed him, "What time is it?"

Steve retreated to Tony's bedroom, and shortly returned with Tony's Stark Phone in hand. Tony opened up to the locked screen. It read: 12:37. He missed his call with Pepper and his call with the sales department.

"Damn," Tony muttered, "guess I took a long nap."

Steve didn't respond.

"My own fault, I guess," Tony prodded, "for waking up so inhumanly early on a Saturday."

Again, Steve didn't respond. It wasn't his fault, Tony reminded himself, he wasn't supposed to talk in the first place.

"Okie dokie," Tony mumbled, rising from the loveseat, "let's get you moving, Big Guy."

* * *

"No, Steve, you gotta keep your back straight."

…

"No, no, Steve. Straight. It's called a swan-dive, you gotta look like a swan I guess."

…

"Does what you're doing look like a swan to you?!"

…

"Yes. Yes I know what a swan looks like."

…

"Well, you know, it's… a bird. And it's white. And they start out as ugly ducklings, but then become hot and gorgeous so all their childhood bullies feel ashamed. Now, just do the pose. Please."

…

"No, I most certainly will not demonstrate for you. How else will you learn? Silly goose."

…

"Okay, okay, okay, forget the goose. Just do the swan-dive. Swans are better than gooses anyway."

…

"Gooses. Geeses. Same thing."

It was ultimately depressing when it suddenly occurred to Tony that he was having this conversation entirely by himself. He was sitting with his legs crossed on the floor of his miniature-gym (he had the room only because he could afford it; he actually had no intention of ever using it), choreographing Steve's fitness regimen. Directing stretches actually proved to be difficult since Tony was unable to demonstrate anything; or else, he'd be feeling the stretches well into next week. It was also burdeningly difficult because he was teaching a near-handicapped pupil who had no way of verbal responses; they had a terrible communication limit.

Tony was aggravated. He wasn't ballistic, nor was he remotely close to angry. He was only mildly irritated. The tediousness of the situation was driving him nuts.

Steve bent over towards the ground as instructed, back slightly bent.

Tony sighed, "Close enough. Do it again, but keep your arms out. Like a swan. And then touch your toes once you're at the ground."

Steve did as he was told, or at least, how he interpreted it. His form hasn't really changed at all; it was still flimsy and too stiff. He was so rigid, in fact, it looked like his spine would snap in two if he kept rising and falling. He did the swan-dive in his typical confusion, completely arthritic and solid.

Tony almost pointed out Steve's mistake, but stopped himself. He was glad he did. Sure, Steve was doing the stretch wrong, but Tony had the captain's sensitivity to think about, as annoying as it was.

Tony continued to think like this, even as they moved from stretches to semi-curl-ups. And he felt the same as they moved from semi-curl-ups to push-ups. He was even unnerved as they went from push-ups to some bar exercises; things like bar-planks and demi pull-ups.

Steve looked like he wanted to spew out something vile the entire time he was planking. But Tony was keeping an eye on him, he knew Steve wasn't going to get hurt.

It had been this way for more than half an hour: with Tony instructing the latter, and Steve attempting to follow. And everytime Steve did something incorrectly, Tony neglected to say anything about it. He was too cautious. Dr. Romanoff had said that too much strain could hurt Steve, and that made Tony decide he that wouldn't push him, even if he needed it.

And that decision proved to be annoying. How the hell was he supposed to shape up his cap if he couldn't bring himself to correct him? Tony knows he's doing the wrong thing, according to biology and the doctor's orders, but he feels he's doing the right thing because it just… feels right.

His bipolar thought process was really kicking in today. This was like his third time today confusing himself.

There was a smack as Steve hit the floor. His face collided first, skidding the rough cement, followed by the rest of his body tumbling over. He lay still before groaning.

"Holy crap," Tony said as he rushed over to him. He hadn't been paying attention, and now this happened! He stood over Steve, scanning for injury.

"Are you hurt? Where does it hurt?"

Steve only groaned again as he sat up on his own. He rubbed his forehead, frowning. He had an ugly expression of hurt on his face, his right eye showing signs of watering up.

Tony froze. Steve had pulled that same look three years ago, right before their escape, when they collided heads. It was surreal.

Tony sat down beside Steve, "Hey… are you okay?"

He nodded, but he was the opposite of convincing. He wasn't helping when he checked his own body for injuries.

"Hey…" Tony breathed. His chin dipped into his chest, "Hey, hyperactive Bella Swan–"

–Steve frowned–

"-look, I'm sorry you got hurt. Really, I am. I wasn't watching. I didn't see you fall. Sorry. If only… I just wish you were better at being responsible for yourself, this work is hard for me, you know. C'mon, let's just get back to your exercises, whaddya say?"

Muteness fell in between them. It was more than uncomfortable. It was so silent that the only thing Tony could hear was the panicked blood surging through his ears. Something cold crawled up his spine. He touched his shoulder, "Steve? You okay?"

Steve's frown was dark, his jaw clenched tightly. He appeared cold with anger, his expression dead. It was the scariest he's ever looked: purely angry. Steve slapped Tony's hand off his shoulder and stood up on his own. He headed for the door.

Tony beat him there. He shielded the door handle with his body, "C'mon, Steve. Really? Are you mad? I didn't mean to make you mad, you know that Steve. You know that. C'mon, let's just shake this off, forget about it, and get back to your exercises."

Steve skirted around him. Tony kept the door shut.

"Is a Twilight reference really all it takes to piss you off? C'mon, you're better than that," Tony tried again. He was just as confused as he had been earlier. Steve's behaviour was strange; he's never acted this way before. Steve angry at him? It almost felt like betrayal. Angry? Angry for _what?_

"I promise I won't call you hyperactive Bella Swan anymore," Tony said.

Steve clenched his jaw further. He didn't meet Tony's gaze. Without expectation, Steve lunged for the door, he tried to pry Tony's hands from the doorknob. Steve's elbow was rutting into Tony's ribs.

Reacting as quickly as he could, Tony kept one hand firm on the doorknob, and used the other to push Steve back. But Steve kept his feet planted in the ground, he wasn't going anywhere.

Tony's head slammed back onto the door, Steve's elbow _ramming_ into his stomach as a result. An inflation of a throbbing pain met his head and torso; and it hurt like hell. He groaned as he let his grip slip from the door handle.

But Steve didn't seize the escape. He stood by and looked to Tony peculiarly, like he was concerned. He could have looked afraid, but Tony knew better.

"Go on, get out of here!" Tony shouted, opening the door and stepping out of the way.

Steve didn't move. He kept the same look.

Tony wasn't having any of it, _"Crap._ I mean, just–just crap, Steve. I don't understand you. You're so... confusing. Look, I didn't mean to–Shit. You're such a _child_ , Steve. You know that? You're a big baby! You get offended by nothing, you're picky over food and stuff, y-you can't do anything on your own. _Crap,"_ Tony shouted, turning to face away from Steve.

Steve was just so–just so infuriating. Tony didn't want to look at him him. But then again, he didn't hear Steve's footsteps leaving the gym. Maybe he's still–

Steve's expression was the same as before. Cold. Dead. Sinister. _Angry_. He walked out of the room, slowly, evilly, locking eyes with Tony the whole time.

Tony didn't say anything. He checked his phone on a nearby stand, reading over the email yet again. Apparently Rhodey invited him out. He would go, he decided. He hasn't been out of the house since Steve came. He needed to blow off steam. He needed a _drink_.

Tony left the gym and made for the elevator door. He grabbed his coat, and turned back, "Steve!" he called, "Steve, I'm going out! I'll be back tonight."

He was about to ask if he should call someone to look after Steve. He decided against it. Steve would just be all the more angry, and be all the more trouble for Tony to put up with.

"Goodbye," he said, softly. It was an unnatural word to say, especially to Steve. He went into the elevator and left. At least now, he was too frustrated to be confused

* * *

 _"Why…"_ Tony groaned, his face squished against the bar top, "why, why, why, why, _why?"_

Rhodey chuckled, slapping a hand down on Tony's shoulder, "Having fun?"

"They're singing Taylor Swift…" Tony mumbled, his words slurred.

"At least they're not singing the Beer on the Wall song."

"I _like_ that song."

"And you don't like Taylor Swift?"

"No. Especially not when a dozen grown men are singing her songs at the top of their lungs inside a New York bar at one in the morning…"

"C'mon, it's not that bad."

"They're _awful."_

Rhodey was still laughing, "I've never seen you have so much fun at this place."

"Hm," Tony mumbled, sitting up. He took another glance around the bar, rolling his eyes. Rhodey was right. The singing was beyond terrible, but he was having fun.

"Rhodey, you're awesome."

He smiled, taking a sip of his lager, "I know."

"Why haven't you dropped by?" Tony asked, slurring and pouting. He was a little tipsy, but still fully aware.

"Dropped by? What do you-"

"-Why haven't you shown up for work?"

"Work?" Rhodey repeated, blinking, "I don't work for you."

"Oh yeah," Tony realized, "Well… Why hasn't Not-Pepper shown up for work?"

"You really gotta come up with a better nickname," Rhodey muttered.

"Why hasn't Not-Pepper shown up for work?" demanded Tony once more, hugging his mug closely.

The lieutenant shrugged, "Beats me. I don't know what you said to him."

"Me neither."

"What?"

"I don't know what I said to offend him. I just have bad luck with this stuff. I offended Steve today, too, for no reason at all."

Rhodey's eyes softened pitifully, "Tones…"

"Don't 'Tones" me! Just tell me what I did wrong."

"Okay, okay, okay," Rhodey began, setting down his glass back onto its paper coaster, "What were you and Peter talking about when he walked out?"

"My office, I think."

"Do you mean the-"

"-Yeah. The visions. They're mechanic. I built them. I installed a device that transports my memories from Afghanistan into viewers' heads. They appeal to the five senses. The viewer can see, smell, hear, feel, fuck it even _taste_ what's going on. You guys both experienced them. They're not magical. They're not poisonous mushrooms. They're holographic simulations by my design."

Rhodey stilled. Then, mechanically, he picked up his glass of lager and downed the entire thing. He turned back to Tony, "Is that the truth?"  
"Yes."

"Why on Earth would you put me and Peter through that?"  
"It…" Tony didn't make eye contact. He traced the liquid on the bar table with his finger, "It was my contribution to the project, when I was making things. I couldn't-I couldn't talk about Afghanistan. It hurt. It still hurts. Like I said about Big Bird, he-I got confused on what I'm supposed to tell and what I'm not supposed to tell. So I built something so you guys could just figure it out on your own. Because I was too afraid to…"

"Tones…"

"What?"  
Rhodey gave a sad smile, shaking his head. He patted Tony's shoulder gently, "Nothing. Never mind."  
"And Not-Pepper's mad at me," Tony mumbled, pressing his face onto the bar table again.

"I can talk to him if you want."

"He doesn't want to talk to you. He wants to talk to me. Why hasn't he shown up for work?"

"Maybe he has college exams?"

"No, he would've told me."

"He's probably just helping his parents or something."

"Not-Pepper doesn't have parents. He lives with his aunt and uncle."

"... Oh," Rhodey said, "Sorry."

"Yeah…"

"We can both talk to him, how's that sound?"

Tony nodded, but he was still dazed, "Steve's mad at me too."

"Why? What'd you do?"

"I don't know. He got hurt today. My fault."

"Poor Tones," Rhodey hummed, still sadly smiling, "Say, how about the two of us go back to your place and talk things out with him, okay? Then we can talk things out with Peter."

Tony sighed in an exaggerated way, almost groaning, "Okaaay."

"That's the spirit," Rhodey said, standing up from the barstool. He slipped some cash onto the table. Tony followed him, sluggishly and stubbornly. He was not looking forward to this.


	13. The Tension Thickens

**The Tension Thickens**

"I'm sorry," Rhodey said yet again, for what was perhaps the tenth time, "I'm still not sure I understand why Captain Rogers is mad at you."

"Neither do I!" Tony exclaimed, inserting his key to the elevator. He pressed his button and the doors closed. Tony leaned his head back against the cool metal of the walls.

They were back at Stark Industries HQ, riding the elevator up to the penthouse, very, very early in the morning. It was just after two. Rhodey and Tony were somehow sober enough to travel five blocks from the bar and not get run over by any buses.

Even though he wasn't terribly, blustery drunk, Tony was still in a state of angry confusion. He had no idea how he was supposed to apologize to both Peter Steve, nor why he was required to apologize to them in the first place.

He didn't even know why Steve was resentful. But, then again, maybe that's the reason why Peter and Steve are angry to begin with: because he doesn't pay enough attention to them. And that theory alone aggravated Tony.

"Tell me the story again. Last time," Rhodey assured.

"I made coffee, threw some dog tags, passed out on the couch, woke up, trained with Steve, called him Bella Swan and he was pissed!"

"I think you're selling me short," Rhodey mumbled, "You know how I am: I loathe asking questions."

"Yeah, so?"

"I'm only gonna ask if you're really willing to work with me, here. I don't want to be doing all the work."

"Yeah, yeah. You have my word."

Rhodey scratched his chin, "So he got mad when you were doing his workout..."

"It was hardly a workout," Tony mumbled with a sharp bite in his tone, "he was doing nothing that could hurt him. I have no clue how he could've possibly fallen."

"Wait, he fell?"

"Yeah."

"You never told me that."

"Yeah I did. Back in the bar, I told you."

"Is he hurt?" Rhodey asked, concern seeping into his voice.

"I don't know..." Tony mumbled, "he just–I don't know. I don't think so. He was on the bar thingy."

The elevator doors spread open, revealing Tony's lavish penthouse, Rhodey and Tony walked inside. Tony took off his coat and shoes and dropped them on the hardwood flooring without care. He squinted as he flicked on the light switch.

"It wasn't a tall bar or anything," Tony went on, still blinking and adjusting to the brightness, "it was like maybe as tall as my shoulders. He was just supposed to be doing planks on them."

"And how'd he fall?"

"I don't know, man. I wasn't watching," Tony dismissed, waving a hand. He took a seat on his sofa and began to peel the socks off his feet. The socks were also dropped onto the floor, "so, what do you think's up with him, Rhodey?"

The lieutenant took a seat on the velvet loveseat, "I guess I'm like you: I don't know. I'm not your therapist."

"No, but you're kinda like it. You and Pepper. You guys solve all my problems for me," he rolled his head back onto the cushions, so that he was gazing at the smooth painted ceiling, "I'm not used to all of this work."

Rhodey chuckled under his breath, "I swear. You're like a little boy and Captain Rogers is the new puppy."

"That's a little rude," Tony said, "I'm not a little boy. I'm at least a tween."

"What's a tween?"

"You know, preteen."

"I've never heard anyone use 'tween' before."

"I promise you, it's a thing."

"No way. Imma just say 'pre-teen.'"

"Noooo. Tween. Like an eleven-year-old. Eleven, that's how many years it takes for the Sun to reverse its overall magnetic polarity."

"Your Sun facts are always unrelated and kinda boisterous."

"Boisterous, much like how tweens act."

"Pre-teen."

"Just forget it!" Tony repeated, snapping his head up to look at him, "Forget it all! Just forget it all."

"Hey, now," Rhodey said, "ease down now, quiet down. Don't you think Captain Rogers is sleeping? It's two in the morning."

Tony tried not to feel bad for the latter, because they were apparently supposed to be angry with each other. But he couldn't help but sympathize. Steve probably was sleeping. The image sunk into Tony's subconscious, picturing Steve asleep in an soft, warm, safe bed. The image was gentle, it was heartwarming.

And yet it was so unfamiliar. Tony had only ever seen Steve asleep in an imprisoned cave or buried under scorching sand in the desert. Even then, he wasn't really sleeping; he was either resting because he was sick, or he was knocked unconscious by the captors. A bed is probably what he needs.

Tony, himself, had rarely slept back in Afghanistan. He was too afraid to fall asleep. He thought he might never wake up, or he'd wake up without Steve by his side; he couldn't decide which of the two were worse. But now, it was okay, wasn't it? Steve was right here, right here in his home.

Tony swallowed. He couldn't believe Steve was mad at him. What had he done?

He rubbed the back of his neck before answering Rhodey's question, "I mean, he probably is."

"Has he been sleeping good enough?" Rhodey continued, "might be a factor of 'is behaviour if he's real sleepy and tense."

Tony shrugged.

"Where's he been staying?" he pressed.

"The second guest bedroom. By the bathroom."

"How is it you have so many rooms–"

"-Penthouse. Remember?"

"That's a lot of space... Do you think he feels safe here?"

"I don't know," Tony groaned again, "He doesn't–He doesn't talk to me. I mean, he's not supposed to. So it's not really his fault, but I don't know."

"Well, I'm really not sure what I'm supposed to do to help you. It seems like a problem between the two of you–"

There was the sound of a toilet flushing in the distance.

Rhodey stood from the loveseat in response, "Should I leave?"

Tony was already facing the washroom door. He had his hands braced against the back of the sofa, hiding behind the cushions, slightly peering over the top.

"No, I need you. I don't know what to say," he whispered, not moving from his World-War-Two-Trench Stance.

The door knob made a clicking noise before turning and opening. The captain was holding the handle like he was leaning all of his weight on it; just as stiff as ever. He looked paler than normal, with a red, watery eye to complete the look.

Steve looked terrible, like he had been coughing or sneezing or worse.

He noticed the two from across the hall and began to waver in his place. He looked to Tony, to Rhodey, then back to Tony, and then back to Rhodey. Steve honestly looked so tired that he couldn't distinguish one from the other. He really had no idea what was going on.

He locked eyes with Rhodey again, and saluted.

Rhodey forced a smile, "That's okay, Captain. We're off duty, you don't have to do that. But I appreciate it."

Steve didn't bring his hand down.

"Um… At ease, soldier."

Steve brought his hand back down to his side. He went back to switching his gaze between the two of them. Steve wasn't wearing his eyepatch, so he was simply holding his left eye shut against the light.

Tony narrowed his gaze, perplexed. Steve was acting stranger than normal. He was acting the same way he had when he first started living with Tony: reclusive and seemingly afraid of everything.

This behaviour of Steve's was disappointing. Tony thought that Steve warmed up to him. Guess not.

"Listen, Steve," Tony began awkwardly. He didn't even meet his gaze, "'m sorry that… I'm sorry that I called you Bella Swan. You're way more of a sexy Jacob."

Rhodey glared.

"And…" Tony forced himself to continue, "I'm sorry you're angry. I don't know why, and I feel bad for that. I'm going to take better care of you now and stuff. How's that sound?"

Steve gave the slightest of nods. He wasn't looking directly at Tony either, but his nod sufficed.

Tony eased out of his hiding pose. He patted the spot next to him on the sofa as an invitation for Steve, as a peace offering. Tony felt a wholesome smile spread across his face when Steve actually moved to take the spot.

But Steve didn't sit down just then. He hovered by the sofa arm, gripping onto it so tightly that his knuckles rattled.

"Steve? You okay, buddy?" Tony asked, concerned.

Up close, Tony could see that Steve looked like crap; and that was the kindest way of putting it. His open eye was red and matched with crows feet. His posture was the most ill-kept its ever been, he was nearly hunched over while standing up, holding one arm over his stomach. He literally swayed.

Then, without verbal warning, Steve vomited.

Tony recoiled, backing away and standing on instinct, _"Holy–"_

Looking at himself, Tony saw that his shirt and pants bore the same vile puke that irrigated his living room. The vomit trailed all over his clothes and all over his expensive imported sofa. The sofa was ruined; two hundred thousand dollars down the toilet. And it reeked.

Tony snarled and gave his shirt a shake, putrid vomit slinging onto the floor, "Damn it, Steve!"

Steve backtracked a bit. Tony was still hot and furious, "Do you know how much that couch costs?!"

"Tony," Rhodey snapped.

"I'm not–" Tony ran a hand over his face. It smelled like puke. He cringed, "Ste–Steve you gotta warn me about this stuff! How am I supposed to know your bodily functions? I don't! We've established that, you should know that. You need to be more responsible, take care of yourself."

He took another look at the ruined couch and felt his chest knot, "I swear," he looked directly at Steve, "I'm dealing with a _four-year-old."_

"Tony, that's enough," Rhodey demanded. He was quite clearly trying to play the neutral party. But he seemed far more biased towards Steve than he should be.

Tony spun back towards the lieutenant, arms up in a surrendering position, "I'm not doing anything!"

"Tony, _back off!_

 _"What have I said?"_

 _"You should know!"_

There was a beat.

Slowly, without thought, Tony raised his hands to pull at his hair once more. But then he decided against it, and stopped himself. His hands reeked. His hair probably did too.

Plus, he was already appearing too submissive for his likings.

He placed his hands on his hips instead, a seemingly powerful defensive move, "Rhodey, I'm not mad at him or nothin,'" he took a moment to compose himself once more, "I know he can't control if he freaking pukes or not, geez. I know that. I don't care about the couch. It's just–he–I… It's just that he never tells me what's up with him. You know how I am with emotions and stuff."

"Stop monologuing," Rhodey said, "What's the matter with you? You were the one who told me how sensitive he is, and yet there you were: goin' off at him."

"I wasn't..." Tony kicked the socks on the floor, "going off at him."

"Then what were you doing?"

"... Going off at him."

"...Sorry," Rhodey must've seen the guilt Tony had consuming him. He eased back his tone, "Well, what was it you were trying to tell him?"

"...that I don't like how he never tells me what's wrong with him. I-I'm always on my own and it's _hard_. I mean, it's _shit_. I can barely take care of myself and now I have to take care of some retarded little kid–"

"Tony."

He clasped his hands over his mouth. The disgusting smell overwhelmed him, he could taste it.

"My bad," Tony muttered, "it slipped out. Steve isn't… Steve is actually very capable."

He suddenly realized Steve wasn't in the room anymore. Tony looked around the living area frantically, "Where'd he go?"

"He left after you called him a four-year-old," Rhodey responded matter-of-factly.

"Geez. He's always like that when I–" Tony's eyes went wide, his jaw dropped. He almost smiled in satisfaction, "He _is_ always like that…"

"Always like what?"

"Steve," Tony began, voice airy with excitement, "is always fucking upset when I call him a kid!"

"What do you mean?"

Tony was bouncing off the walls now with energy that should be impossible for anyone to obtain at two in the morning. He actually rocked up and down the revolting couch cushions, dashing and flitting around the room like a sprite. But with his jumps, he had no grace; he was stumbling all over himself in excitement.

"When he spoke!" Tony went on, voice as elated as his movements, "that first time he spoke, at breakfast, when he wasn't supposed to speak? It was because I was treating him like a child! And then he got mad yesterday when I called him a baby! And like now, and–" he had to break off his dialogue to catch his breath.

He slid down onto the floor, back against the couch, trailing the filthy vomit after him, not even caring about the sofa. Tony leaned his head back as he continued breathing. With an airy, brash laugh, he said, "Wow. I mean just... just wow. Steve really is a baby if that's all it takes to piss him off."

Rhodey sat down next to him, on a clean part of the floor, "Maybe it's more than that."

"Hm?"

"C'mon man, do you really think the captain is that insecure?"

Tony made his tone gravely as he snorted, "I mean he's certainly acting like it."

"Stop it. I know what you're tryin' to do: brush it all off, be the tough guy. I know. I do," Rhodey wrapped an arm around Tony's shoulders, pulling him in close, "but to fix all of this, all of this, you're gonna need to work with me. 'kay?"

Tony wouldn't admit that Rhodey's embrace felt nice, and yet he knew that Rhodey was aware of how Tony felt. He was a good friend like that. Tony let out a long breath as he leaned back into Rhodey's arm, "Yeah. Whatever, big guy."

Rhodey patted Tony's shoulder before letting go, "Permission to release my arm."

"Permission granted, Lieutenant."

"Permission to speak freely."

"Permission denied, Lieutenant," Tony gave a toothy smile and batted his eyelashes like a schoolgirl.

"Override," Rhodey smirked back, "Imma speak freely and you ain't gonna stop me."

"You don't know your place, Lieutenant," Tony threw a fake punch, "You must obey my law."

Rhodey stopped Tony's fist before it touched his arm, "No, Tony."

"Wha-What's wrong? I thought we were playing."

"I think I figured it out. See, a soldier's job is about honor, respect, discipline, selflessness, and responsibility. And that's what I think is up with your captain."

Tony blinked, "What's wrong with my captain?"

"He thinks he has to be responsible for himself. Or, at least, he _wants_ to be responsible for himself. Either one, I'd say. But see, he's unable to because of his body's state. So, you telling him that he can't take care of himself is–"

"Insulting him," Tony said.

Rhodey didn't hide his frown, "Yeah."

"...Whoops."

"Tones, don't take it too badly, I'm sure he–"

"-but he _can't_ take care of himself. His mental state is worse than his physical state, and I don't think I–"

"-Tones, he knows that already. It's okay."

"What? N-No, no it's not, I gotta–"

"-Breathe."

"Right. Right, right, right, breathe. Yes, yes, of course."

Rhodey wavered a moment, "You know what?"

"What?"

"There's a movie I think you should see. It's called _The Theory of Everything."_

Tony smirked slightly, more rue than sarcasm on his face, "Why a movie?"

"Movie-making is an art form that appeals to all audiences. And this movie will help you out."

"What's it about?"

Rhodey raised his eyebrows, "I guess you'll have to wait and see."

Tony forced a smile. Rhodey clapped his shoulder once more, as he stood up from the ground, "Goodnight, brother."

Tony smacked him right back, as he also rose from the floor, "Yeah, g'night, man."

Rhodey went to the elevator and pushed the button.

"Take it easy," he said, before turning to enter the elevator. The doors closed behind him. That humble sound of the elevator tunneling downwards echoed in the living room. Tony was alone.

He stripped his vomit-covered shirt from his body, and dropped it on the floor with his socks and coat. He walked down the hallway, trying to tear off his gross jeans too, tripping over the pants legs. He waited until he was inside his massive master bedroom to remove his boxers, and then put on a fresh pair.

Tony was finally beginning to feel more awake than robotic as he rummaged through his drawers. He decided to wear his Black Sabbath t-shirt and some black jeans. He didn't hesitate to put on his Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer knee-high socks. Just because.

Swiping across the slick flooring with his festive attire, Tony slid to the second guest bedroom, where the door was shut tightly. He knocked.

"Steve?" he called. His stomach did a flop inside his cramped insides. It occurred to Tony that he had no idea what he was going to say (and that was a common theme for him), and it was frightening beyond belief.

The door opened a crack. Steve didn't reveal himself. All that could be seen from behind the door was a hand with purpled knuckles gripping onto the handle.

"Steve," Tony said once more, "want some dinner?"

* * *

Okay, so maybe it was way too late for dinner. It was also way too early for breakfast. But Tony was hungry, and he had a hunch that Steve was hungry too.

So, he proposed that the two of them dive into the leftover Chinese food that Peter gave them. There was actually plenty left in Tony's (surprisingly) empty refrigerator: one box of dumplings, fried rice, a soy sauce packet, and packets of duck sauce, another box of lo mein with assorted meats and vegetables, and two of the bottled waters remained.

Not to mention, there were about ten packets of the only "Asian Cuisine" Tony actually gave two cents about: Plum Sauce.

Tony smiled as he assembled all the plum sauce packets together. He boarded them up like a wall, much like hoarding them. Frankly, he didn't care if he was hoarding. He loved plum sauce and that was that. And right now, he was filthy rich in plum sauce. He really needed to thank Peter.

Or... maybe he should just apologize to the poor kid already. Or both. Peter probably needed both.

Tony made sure that Steve's meal was assembled, before sitting down at the table with him. He pulled out his Stark Phone and dialed up his junior assistant.

It rang three times before there was the familiar connecting click of the audio. From the other line Tony could hear rustling and what sounded like early morning yawns. Then the junior assistant's voice broke through:

 _"Mmnnn... Mr. Stark?"_ he started, the sound of crinkling bedsheets evident in the background, _"It's like three in the morning. What's wrong..? Is something wrong?"_

"No, no," Tony assured, "Did I wake you up? Sorry, kid. No emergency. I just–um, I just wanted to thank you for... plum sauce."

 _"...Okay. You're welcome."_

"And I also wanted to, you know, apologize."

 _"Okay."_

"Well... I know I haven't been exactly.. open with you and–um–"

Tony could barely focus on forming words; something distracted him. Across the table, Steve was glaring right at him like the devil. Bitter distaste was so distinct in his cold blue eye that it was powerful enough to disturb the rhythm of Tony's heartbeat. Never before had he ever looked so angry, because it wasn't just anger–Tony realized with horror– it was pure _hatred_. It was _sickening_.

Tony suddenly forgot what he was saying. He could feel his hand shaking around his device, and the vibration of his junior assistant's voice mumbling through the speakers, but no words registered. All he could do was feel afraid and so very lost.

Steve's glare was burning through his skin, Tony could quite literally _feel_ the heat dancing up his arms and chest. His heart skipped a beat.

"Steve...?" he asked, it came out only as a whisper. Looking around the room in anxiety, Tony noticed a pair of chopsticks on the ground. Perhaps they were Steve's, and he dropped them?

Tony's felt his anxiety go numb and dissolve. Was that all Steve needed? His chopsticks? That's all, wasn't it? And Steve just felt mad because he was unable to reach them himself?

"One sec, Non-Pep," Tony told the Stark Phone. He set it on the table as he stood from his seat. He went to Steve's side of the table and bent underneath to reach his chopsticks.

But as he crouched there beside the chair Steve sat in, Tony got the paranoid feeling someone was looking at him. He looked back to Steve, whose hatred had not dissipated, but grown. Steve's anger was evident and unchanged.

Something invisible hit Tony in the face when he realized that he was holding his own chopsticks, not Steve's. Steve would never want Tony to do small jobs for him, especially not now. And that meant Steve was only continuously acting out of place because of what Tony said earlier...

"Shit," Tony didn't realize he said that aloud. He dropped the chopsticks but stayed kneeling by the chair's side, "Steve, you know I'm sorry, right? I'm sorry. You know that I don't–I'm not–"

The blue of Steve's deceitful eye had darkened to that of a black storm, brewing with absolute rage. He looked right at Tony as he knocked over his bottle of water. The liquid came pouring out, spilling across the tabletop and sinking into the carpet.

And Steve stared as Tony used a washcloth to wipe it all away.

And Steve still stared when he pushed his fork off the table.

And Steve still stared, unsatisfied, when Tony simply picked it up for him.

Tony was too full of guilt to feel angry with Steve's behaviour. Clearly, he understood what game he was getting himself into. It was a game of patience: Steve purposefully acting as if he's irresponsible, and Tony cleaning up the mess and tolerating it. Sure, Tony could play this game. He will play this game until there's a winner. And Tony seldom loses a game, especially when the stakes are high.

After cleaning up Steve's many messes and sending him to bed, Tony returned to his phone on the table. Peter had already hung up half an hour ago, fifteen minutes into their conversation. Tony didn't blame him, in fact he was proud of how long Peter hung around.

He sighed as he shut off his device. He plopped down on his disgusting sofa, fishing through smelly cushions to pull out the television remote. He put _The Theory of Everything_ on the screen and then sat back to watch it.


	14. Forty-Two Years Young

**Forty-Two Years Young**

Witnessing the entire one hundred twenty-three minutes of _The Theory of Everything_ proved itself to be the most sentimental moment on Tony's life since being tortured in Afghanistan and having his savior captain reduced to a villain.

That statement alone sounded pathetic enough to ground his billionaire playboy image six feet deep under the soil. But after watching that movie, Tony was in such a state of numb grief that he could not bring himself to care about that.

The film captured the true story of Stephen Hawking, a brilliant genius who Tony was fortunate enough to meet during his lifetime. The two actually had plenty in common: they were both geniuses, they had pretty durable senses of humor, failed relationships, and physical characteristics they fought against daily. (Tony's disability being his closeted anxiety.) He and Stephen had only met at a science conference and then had some drinks together, they had never had the chance to grow close. But Tony knew if they had, they would have been close enough to call each other friends. Stephen was just that great.

And watching the film of that wonderful man's struggles to survive as a _human_ being was heartbreaking. Stephen was _just like Steve. He was just like Steve,_ determined, stubborn and arrogant. But he was also hurting, ashamed, and scared of his own body.

And then there was Jane, the aspiring young woman who found herself as Stephen's wife. She had only wanted to be there for him as a friend, to take care of him, and give him some attention before he died. But he didn't die, not for a long time. And they grew apart. And Jane was just like Tony, trying and trying and _trying_ to love someone who _wanted_ to be unlovable.

Tony cried for hours and hours, letting the film replay over and over again because he hadn't the strength to pick up the remote. He eventually worked himself up to the point where he could taste bile and vomit build up inside his hiccuping throat. His stomach was queasy and his hands were shaky.

He was just numb with tears and had nothing to say. Tony began to feel like he wasn't taking away the film's message, and like it didn't even have a core message to begin with. He felt like the film only existed to mock him, to kill him from the inside out. It was shaking his thoughts around with the sweet children, Jane's soreness, surgeries, drifting in marriage, the Oscar award, black hole theories, the Letter Board, and the moment when Stephen lost his voice. His voice was the one thing he had left, and he had it taken away from him. Like Steve.

Tony loved and hated _The Theory of Everything_ so intensely it ached. He loved it because it was a gorgeous story about a heroic man told by wonderful actors and actresses. It was inspiring, heartwarming, and relatable.

But that's the same reason Tony hated it: it was relatable. The film was specifically designed to hurt him and make him feel guilty for all that he cannot do for Steve, and all that Steve will never do for him. It reminded him of all the grievances and gaps in their tired friendship. It was a film of his own story, he realized.

When he finally stopped crying, Tony observed that it was dusky outside, clearly very late in the day. He fumbled around the vomit-slaughtered couch for the remote and pressed the power button. He didn't want any more of the torture, he was done.

He made himself a bowl of soup and stirred at it nonchalantly.

Sitting there, Tony realized that he had once previously had the same schedule of crying and rewatching again and again. Or, at least, when he had done it for the first time, he was crying and re _reading._

Only a week after Afghanistan, Tony brought himself to speaking. The very first thing he uttered was a question he asked to Pepper, he asked her for a novel; specifically _Rebecca_ , the book that his captain had spoke so fondly of.

Pepper bought it for him without hesitance. She even bought an original antique copy. Tony spent the next two months reading and rereading it. By now, he knows all of the best lines by memory. And he's seen the 1940 film adaptation at least a dozen times.

All of that obsessive behaviour, it was all because Steve had spoken of the book so fondly. And at the time, Tony thought Steve was gone forever. He missed him, and wanted a part of him back.

And now he misses him once more. Steve and Peter both.

Tony let out a long huff before sipping his soup. It was bitter.

Suddenly he was hit by a spur of divine intervention, or at least something of the sort. A twig of an idea sprouted into a plan inside of his head. He now knew how he could apologize to Peter.

* * *

Normally when Tony needed a package delivered, he just had Pepper take care of it. But he didn't have Pepper anymore, he didn't even have Peter, so he had to resolve this on his own.

He didn't know jack-crap about postal works. He didn't understand stamps, zip codes, addresses, none of it. Now thinking about it, he realizes that he's probably never touched a mailbox in his life.

Mail delivery was a thing of the past and Tony was a man of the future, using emails, video chats, and drone-package-deliveries way before they were introduced to the common public. He really could not think of a single time when he had to Go Dutch.

But this man of the future has to go back to caveman times, at least for a little while. He needed to deliver a package to someone special.

Tony was in the file room, searching for a certain junior assistant's job application form. He was looking for Peter's form because it had his address listed on it. He knew that addresses had something to do with mail delivery, so he needed to find it.

The package he prepared was sitting atop a stool in the file room, overlooking his pathetic searching for Peter's files. Apparently he knew nothing about physical manila folder files either.

He closed a bin. No dice in there.

Tony began to whistle a vaguely catchy show tune as he skirted about the room, throwing in some dance gestures to match his music. Now tapping his hands along the filing cabinets, he came across another bin labeled _Short Term and Temporary Employees._

He opened it and looked for the "P" section.

"Mr. Stark?"

His whistling dropped to a sour note. He didn't look towards the door. In fact, he didn't move at all, he was completely still.

"Hello, Not-Pepper."

"What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same."

"I was…" Peter just stood there in the door frame, face unreadable in the dark of the file room. Light from the hallway poured in from off his shoulders, but shadowed his face. He was like a stone statue.

"Well?" Tony demanded, turning to look at him, but evidently saw nothing worthwhile.

"I was gonna terminate my contract, Mr. Stark," he said with a strange confidence.

Peter entered the room now, moving a little closer. His expression was more visible, he didn't look afraid or shaken, but unmoved and courageous.

Peter's words sunk in.

"Wha–Terminate your contract? What, are you an idiot, or something? Terminating a contract is called quitting, Not-Pepper!" Tony exclaimed.

"I know," Peter replied calmly, "That's what I'm trying to do."

"Why... Why are you quitting?" Tony asked, emotion draining away from his voice. He found himself dumb, all of a sudden, he couldn't understand a thing.

"Well, it's been five days unexcused absences for me," Peter stated breezily, "and according to the PA Handbook, that results in–"

"-N-No, kid, I mean, _why_ are you quitting? What's making you leave?" he asked rushedly. Tony as getting more and more anxious by the second, he realized by the high voice he had and the unsteady rhythm of his artificial heartbeat roaring in his chest.

Peter didn't say anything. And that made Tony break into a sweat.

"It's because of me, right?" he demanded, "Something that I did? What'd I do? C'mon tell me, I-I- I didn't mean-"

Peter wasn't even looking at him anymore.

Tony whipped around, fist outstretched, and delivered a blow to the filing cabinets. One of them actually toppled over at the force of his punch, papers and folders flying upwards in flittering paths. The cabinet dropped to its side with a crash of metal and creaks.

Peter stared in horror, "Mr. Stark..."

"Look... look..." his throat was rising up and down along with the unevenness of his breathing, but Tony forced himself to speak, "Look, Peter I'm sorry I never call you by your name, it's just a thing. A thing of mine, that I do. And I'm s-sorry I left you behind on.. you know, internal struggles and shit. And I didn't tell you anything about the visions and all, I know that, and I'm sorry. It's just-It's just hard, you know? And I'm-I'm–"

"-You're bleeding."

"...Yeah, that too."

"Come here," Peter muttered. He slung his red and blue backpack off his shoulders and sorted through the insides. After pulling his employer closer, he grabbed Tony's hand and examined it. He took out paper towels and used pressed them against the oozing cut along Tony's knuckles.

Tony honestly didn't realize how much his fist hurt until now.

He winced, _"Ow."_

"Shh," Peter commanded. He pulled out some Band-Aids from the backpack and started to apply them individually. The look of concentration and concern was written on his furrowed brow was so evident that it made Tony smile.

"You _do_ care."

Peter didn't look up, "Of course I care."

"Yeah, well I… I care too."

Peter stopped now, and met Tony's gaze.

"I, um.." Tony started, "I know I'm not so good with words, so I got you something."

He indicated the package sitting on the stool, which Peter looked to in curiosity.

"It's for you."

Peter pulled a face, before moving to retrieve the package. He had a pocket knife in his backpack, which he used to slice open the top. He pulled back the cardboard flaps one by one, opening up the box to reveal the cover of a novel.

Peter picked it up from the box and held it out in front of him to examine it. _Rebecca_ was written in red letters across the hardcover top, the name of the author written below.

"It's a book," Tony stated dumbly, "probably the best one ever written. Just saying."

Peter was still examining the book with awe. It had to be at least fifty years old.

"What's it about?" Peter asked, flipping through the first few pages to find a published-date.

"Oh, see, there's this young woman who marries an older widower."

"Was the young woman Rebecca?" Peter asked.

"No, goodness no. The-uh, the main character is never named, 'coz it's told from first person. Rebecca was the first wife of the man. It's a mystery genre, sort of, so I can't give away too much," Tony dismissed, waving his hand.

Peter nodded. He found the publication date: 1938. He smiled in fascination.

"Peter."

Now he looked back to his boss. It's so rarely uncommon to hear himself called by his real name. He stared at the way his boss rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably, it was sort of unnerving.

"It's about compromise," Tony said, rubbing his neck and frowning, "the book is. Compromise. That's the big takeaway message. See, the new wife learns that she has to give her husband love in order to be loved. She learns that has to take care of him. It's... about maturity, really. She has to grow up so that she can, you know, really _really_ love him in order for him to feel safe with her and love her back."

Peter breathed. A tinted shade of pink blossomed on his cheeks, it was visible even in the dark.

Tony breathed too. He dropped his hands to his side, resting.

Then he smirked, "Now, I'm not telling you to fall in love with me or anything–"

 _"-Jesus-"_

"–but I am saying that I have learned that I need to compromise. I… I have to grow up and be the adult. I am an adult. You shouldn't be taking care of me all the time, I should start taking care of you," he said. The fainting hint of a smile shown on his face. He almost looked at peace.

Peter was taken away, "Mr. Stark…"

"Well maybe not _full_ on adult. I mean, I'm forty-two, I'm still young, right?"

Peter giggled, "Yeah. Yeah, forty-two's _totally_ still young!"

"Good. In that case, wanna go get some sodas, or whatever junk the kids drink nowadays?"

"Sure."

"So, Coke? Pepsi? Red Bull?" Tony prompted, slinging an arm around Peter and beginning to lead him out of the file room.

"Anything with caffeine would be awesome right now," Peter agreed. They were already walking down the hall, Tony's arm still embracing the junior assistant's shoulders.

"So what are we doing today?" Peter asked.

"Getting something with caffeine."

"No, I mean work."

"Pssh, that stuff doesn't matter. I'll have Pepper deal with it when she gets back."

"I don't think Miss Potts will appreciate that."

"She won't," Tony agreed. He pressed the Penthouse button inside the elevator and turned his key, "but she always forgives me."

Peter smiled. He tried to hide rolling his eyes, "Okaaay, so if we're not doing work, what are we doing?"

"Whatever you want," Tony replied with a smile. He gave Peter's shoulders an extra tight squeeze before releasing.

The elevator doors shut. Tony and Peter felt the familiar lag, before the thrust of the elevator soaring upwards. They stood in quiet peace, undisturbed.

Then something clicked in the back of Tony's mind.

"Hey, kid?"

"Yes, sir?"

"We can do whatever you want, granted. But would you mind helping me with something?"

"Sure. What do you need?"

"Well…"

* * *

Tony ran his finger around the rim of his bowl, gathering the remaining bits of ice cream on the side. He scooped it up and finished it, sucking the ice cream from his finger. This was the second ice cream soda he finished while observing Peter scribbling in a notebook, legs criss-crossed sitting on the floor.

Well, technically Tony's second ice cream soda was only Peter's unfinished ice cream soda. Tony just decided that Mother Earth needed a break from making ice cream sodas, and then having them haphazardly unfinished. So he took the burden off Her shoulders and finished Peter's.

The junior assistant was too busy to finish anyway, he was in charge of Steve's physical therapy. Not only was the kid composing ideas for directing, but he was monitoring, he planned on performing and correcting the exercises with Steve. Peter was composing an entire notebook full of ideas for the therapy-or _choreography_ \- as he called it.

There were many reasons why Tony knew Peter was perfect for this job. Number one being that the kid had first-hand experience with, essentially, raising his uncle. He was half a century younger than his uncle, but nevertheless he helped his aunt nurse him into peak physical and mental stability, and that was _something_ , especially considering he was only seventeen at the time.

The second reason had a big something to do with Peter's records; which Tony did end up finding in the filing room after all; with Peter's help of course. Apparently, the kid was minoring in Dance and Sports' Medicine. That fact alone blew Tony's mind. His apprentice had been fully equipped to help with Steve's physical therapy all this time.

And, of course, the third reason: they literally just made up twenty minutes ago. It would be awkward for Peter to leave. Plus, Tony just felt like he needed to keep an eye on him, at least for a little while.

And as of right now, Peter was doing a hell of a good job in his planning. He was motivated and everything.

But Tony didn't want to let Peter down, but felt that it was inevitable. He highly doubted Steve would listen to Peter's directions, as he doesn't even bother with listening to Tony; Steve's been shut away in his bedroom for almost an entire day now.

Tony sighed.

"What's wrong?" Peter asked. He was facing the miniature gym's mirror and stretching, legs apart in a V pose and reaching to the side. He stretched without breaking a sweat, naturally.

"Oh, nothing," Tony replied, gruffing, "just out of ice cream."

"C'mon. You said you were gonna be more open with me from now on," Peter pointed out, reaching to his other side.

"S'ppose that's true."

"So?"

"So, what?"

"So, what's wrong? Something's going on between you and the captain, right?"

Tony smiled, "How'd you figure it out, Nancy Drew?"

"Well, it was obvious," Peter smiled back, "if all had been right between you two, you would've taken care of his training yourself, right?"

Tony contemplated, "Maybe. I'll tell you what, if I had known you were minoring in dance, I would have never _considered_ taking care of it myself!"

"C'mon," Peter grinned now, showing off as he bent over and touched the ground without bending his knees, "stretching isn't hard."

"Um, yes. It is."

"C'mon! Get up and do it!"

"I'm forty-two years old!"

"Forty-two's totally still young."

Tony bit the inside of his cheek to hold in laughter. He tossed his head back, "My goodness, I've missed you, Nancy Drew."

"Is that my new nickname, now?"

"Only if you want it to be," Tony set the empty ice cream bowl aside and stood up to join Peter. He was still wearing his Black Sabbath t-shirt and his jeans, not exactly workout attire, but he decided he wouldn't let it bother him. They were only stretching after all. Besides, skipping out on time with his junior assistant would suck right now.

"Do you have a nickname at school?" Tony prompted, mimicking the way Peter held out his arms, "Would it be chill if I used that, or would it just be anti-climatic?"

Peter rolled his eyes, "They call me 'Webs!'"

"Hm?"

"At school. They call me 'Webs' and 'Webhead.' Amongst other strange things, of course."

Tony stared, confused, "Why the hell do they call you that?"

Peter snorted, and then laughed, _"Long_ story! I mean, you do _not_ want to know!"

Tony laughed too. Peter moved more slowly with his stretches, with grace and ease with every motion. He made sure that his boss had time to follow.

Tony couldn't help but notice how freely Peter was behaving. Never before had he come out of his shell so much in the workspace. No, technically, it wasn't the workspace, but never before had Peter acted so freely with Tony in general. And it was fascinating.

"I'd like to compliment you on being so loose today, Mr. Parker," Tony said with a smirk as they raised their arms towards the sky for a stretch.

"And you, Mr. Stark, are too tense."

"No, I mean that-"

"-Here," Peter positioned himself behind Tony and tried to direct his shoulders into the correct place. Clearly, Tony's pose was not improving; Peter's look of frustration made that evident.

"Why are you so tense? It's because of Captain Rogers, isn't it?"

Tony let his arms fall back to his sides. He looked at Peter through their reflections in the mirror as he admitted, "He's mad at me. I'm just trying to not snap at him or anything."

"Yeah?" Peter said, concern already leaking into his tone, "How come he's mad?"

"I don't know, exactly. I hit his breaking point or something, you know? Like when you say something but you don't know how much it's gonna offend somebody? It's like that, but on a higher scope, I guess. I pushed him too far, made fun of him, basically."

Peter frowned.

"Accidentally!"

"I know, Mr. Stark, I know! It's just… sad, that's all."

"Yeah, it is sad."

"Is he gonna be okay?"

Going silent, Tony put his fists into his black jean pockets and stared at his reflection. He shrugged.

"Well, you were in Afghanistan, too," Peter prompted, "and you're okay. You went through the same stuff he did, and you're okay now! So, he's gonna be fine, right?"

"Peter, you of all people should know that that's not how it works."

Peter went silent. He averted his gaze to the mirror, too.

"Listen, Mr. Stark, it's getting late. I gotta get home," apology was flooding through his words. He almost looked ashamed, "I promise I'll be back tomorrow to work with Captain Rogers."

"Good. Do that."

"It's just that, I gotta help make dinner! A-And you know, it's bad to be out late on the subway when it's dark and-"

"I know. I understand. You can scram," Tony waved him off.

Peter wavered in his spot, swaying unconsciously. He hesitated a bit more before moving to retrieve his notebook. He hustled towards the door. He stopped, "Are you sure?"

"As sure as the Sun is glorious."

"...Okay," he opened the door, "Goodnight, Mr. Stark."

"Goodnight Webhead," he did his famous Tony Stark Close-Mouth Smile and waggled his eyebrows at him.

"Yeah," Peter smiled back, "Good night," he closed the door. The sounds of his footsteps down the hall became softer and softer until they could no longer be heard.

Tony didn't remember how long he stood looking in that mirror that night. It could have been a minute, it could have been an hour. All he was aware of was that he stood staring at himself, but not seeing himself, with Peter's question ringing in his head and hurting his ears. After a while, he didn't even remember what that question had been, and why it had shaken him so much. All he could recall was the frightening concern in the tone.

Tony also didn't remember going to the living room. But he somehow ended up there, empty bottle of whiskey in his left hand, remote in his right hand, sprawled across the disgusting sofa, and watching _The Theory of Everything_ once more.

Hey, he's still young, only forty-two years young, this isn't considered even remotely unhealthy.

But... his relationship with Steve was.


	15. Pity and Worry are Two Different Things

**Pity and Worry are Two Different Things**

Peter made himself present the next day at noon, as planned. Steve had been awake inside his room for hours, meanwhile Tony was just waking up. After spraying deodorant and cologne over his greasy hair and dry skin, Tony dressed and prepared coffee. He had Peter's assistance with the process, of course, considering he just woke up from a night full of hangovers and was therefore barely functioning.

The Stark Brand coffee machine was done brewing by the time Peter finished changing into his dance clothes. He wore a dark purple gym shirt and some black joggers. He started tying the laces of his athletic shoes, propping his feet against the kitchen chair.

Tony slid Peter a cup of coffee across the table.

Peter smiled but didn't take it, "No thanks. Coffee and choreography don't go well together."

Tony raised his eyebrows in response. He wasn't to the point of communication yet.

He took Peter's cup with his own and sipped from them both simultaneously.

Peter would be lying if he said he wasn't at least a little bit impressed.

Tony made a noise of satisfaction as the finished the drinks. He set the cups aside and then placed his hands on his hips.

"'ve you started the book yet?"

"Oh, 'Rebecca?' Yeah, I started it last night," Peter said. Then he went a little red, "I've only read through the first chapter, and I swear I had to Google at least twenty words."

"Yeah, it's a good book. It does that to you," Tony smiled. Peter did too.

"Ready for today, Webs?" Tony asked after a break. He asked the question more positively than he probably should have, considering how tense the situation actually was. But Tony showed no yielding; with his two cups of coffee and his brilliant famous smile as a mask, he could convince the positive. He could almost convince himself.

"Ready as I'll ever be," Peter replied. He finished tying his laces and stepped down from the chair. He gave his arms a few stretches.

"Okay," Tony said.

"Okay."

"...So, do you want to go get him?"

"No, not really."

"What? Why not?!"

"Why me, why not you? He's your captain!"

"Why does everyone keep saying that? I thought we moved past owning people in this era... Anyway, you should go get him because he likes you!"

Peter dropped his mouth, "For the record, you coined the 'my captain' phrase. And he's never even spoken to me, so-"

"-Nope!" Tony zipped his fingers over his mouth, "You said it! You said he's never spoken to you! That's a good thing, so it's gotta be you, kid!"

"What?!"

"I mean it!"

"C'mon!"

"You c'mon!"

"Okay, okay, okay," Peter waved his hands around, "Stop it. Okay? We'll both do it together."

Tony groaned.

"Mr. Stark, c'mon."

"You know what? Fine. Fine, fine, fine, fine, fine. Let's go, let's go. Hup, two, hup, two. On the double," he took off down the hall at a rapid pace. Peter was right on his heels.

They skid to a halt at the second bedroom, light glowed from beneath the door. There wasn't any sound coming from the room, at least none that Peter and Tony could detect. But Tony knew Steve was in there, and he knew perfectly well that Steve intended on staying in there until he dies. Or, until Tony dies.

Tony set his hand on the door handle.

"I'm gonna count to three," he said, "and on three, we go barging in. Sound good?"

"We probably shouldn't _barge–"_

Tony gave him a look.

"-B-But, yeah. We'll go in on three. Sure. S-Sounds good."

Tony began to prepare, "One."

"Two."

" _Three_!" Tony pulled open the door and held it wide open. Peter promptly hurried inside the room, but Tony stood still with a smirk on his face. He slammed the door shut, leaving Peter and Steve in the room alone.

Tony dusted his hands off, a stupid grin still on his face. He hadn't pulled a trick like that in _years_. He used to perform it way back when. He did it even before he had Pepper as a PA, when he wanted to avoid meetings. He would lock all the board members into a room and actually forget about them. Tony would just go on about his day while international representatives and nodes of the highest esteem argued and shouted inside a locked-up presentation room. He ended up getting sued on a dozen separate occasions, but to this day he still regrets nothing. To be quite frank, playing little tricks again made him feel great.

But on the other side of the door, Peter was shocked. He was still as a stone statue, staring ahead with his mouth threatening to drop.

Did his boss actually just–?

He blew steam out of his nostrils. Oh, the joy of working for Tony Goddamn Stark.

Peter took a moment to look around the bedroom. It wasn't as near large as Tony's room was, but it was decorated just as lavishly. The walls were painted a serene shade of bluish-green that Peter had never seen before. The furniture was all corresponding, made of the same stunning black polished wood. And the carpet looked brand new. It even _smelled_ brand-new.

Peter began to wonder if his boss had a cleaning staff, like maids and butlers and stuff. He pulled a face at the thought. What would a modern day maid even look like? Perhaps they dressed like the cleaning women at hotels? He actually couldn't bring himself to think of it. There was so much he didn't know about twenty-first century luxury.

Besides, it seemed highly unlikely his boss had a cleaning staff. At the moment, anyway. Tony was almost in a state of "territorialism;" if it's best called that, anyway. He is too protective of his captain, and too unstable to have random staff members walking about.

Plus, the penthouse probably hasn't been cleaned for _months_. Peter recalled smelling something awful when he came into his boss' penthouse this morning. He was just walking past the living room when the smell hit him. Peter actually had to hold his breath it was so bad; and he had no idea what it was. At the time, he knew it would be rude to investigate, so he didn't. So whatever that smell was, somebody's going to have a terrible time playing clean-up crew.

But this second bedroom had an _amazing_ scent. It smelt familiar and inviting. Almost like warm dryer sheets.

With the smell of home filling him up from the inside out, Peter began to feel incredibly comfortable. He was no longer nervous.

"Captain?" he called out with confidence.

The man was slouching in a chair at the back window. He had his hands propped up against the windowsill. And he stared dead-eyed out to the bustling city below; he wore his medical eye patch over the left eye, so he was unable to see the junior assistant.

"Captain Rogers," Peter said once more.

He trekked towards him carefully, using gentle movements, as not to startle him. He knew how to do this; he had done it for years with his uncle. Peter had practiced the way to walk and communicate like this for so long, in fact, that when his Uncle Ben got better, Peter actually forgot how to walk and communicate properly. He has been in a state of repeated disconnection. And Peter is better than that now.

Or at least, he thinks he is. He's older now. Much more capable.

Captain Rogers was just another Uncle Ben. Peter could do this. Definitely. Just get him up and moving and that's it. He could totally do this.

Steve heard Peter that time, and he moved his hands down into his lap. He waited for Peter to say more, but Peter didn't have anything prepared. He let himself stumble over words.

"I, um, Mr. Stark–he and I need you to, um-" Peter bit his lip. He was out of practice with this stuff. Maybe he couldn't do this.

Steve was already losing interest. He turned back to the window, propping hands back up on the sill. And Peter watched the action wordlessly.

"...you're really skinny," Peter said without thinking. Then he realized that he said that aloud, and covered his mouth in shock, "T-That's not a bad thing! I mean, I'm like super skinny and I eat like as much food as Ned does. Ned-he's my friend from school- he picks on me a lot for that so, um-"

He trailed off. But Steve's attention was drifting, so Peter knew he had to say _something_.

"Mr. Stark says you're having trouble eating... My, uh, my uncle did too, once, a long time ago. It's not very healthy. I'm, uh, I'm minoring in sports medicine, so I can help with that! But… yeah, seriously, can I go buy you a bagel or something? What do you like? New York's got the best bagels."

Peter remembered something bizarre, "Hey. Hey, wait!" he exclaimed, "You're from New York, aren't you? Somewhere in New York?"

Now he had Steve's attention. He nodded, but with haste; like he feared the question was a trick.

"I knew it!" Peter felt himself becoming excited, "You like watching the city, don't you? I do too. So you're from like–where are you from? Queens?"

Steve shook his head.

"Manhattan? The Bronx?"

Steve pulled a face.

"Brooklyn, then. Right? You're from Brooklyn?"

Peter could swear he felt his heart swell and melt all at once when Steve pulled an expression he would have never seen coming: Steve smiled. There was a heated but easeful sensation of excitement churning in Peter's chest. Steve was actually smiling. It was a sliver of a smile, so small that it was hardly noticeable, but Peter saw it. And it made him so proud.

"You're from Brooklyn..!" he breathed, shaking his head in awe, "Me, I-I'm from Queens! So we're like... New York Twins, or something. And that's like– _Gosh,_ this is the coolest thing ever! Mr. Stark's gonna flip out."

The gentle smile threatened to leave once Steve heard Tony's name being said. Panicked, Peter tried to get it back quickly.

"Hey, hey now," he said, easing his hands up, "how about we go visit Brooklyn sometime? We can go see whatever you wanna see. You, me, and Mr. Stark, if you want. Does that sound good? It sounds good, right? Visiting Brooklyn would be awesome! It would, wouldn't it? I'm already excited!"

Peter didn't realize he was rambling. He was practically bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet.

He clasped his hand over Steve's shoulder, rattling the thin flesh with enthusiasm. But Steve grew disturbed, and shot his hand on top of Peter's. And he pried the fingers off promptly, with a motion so robotic and automatic it was worrisome.

Peter winced; not because of his discomfort, but because of Steve's reaction.

Peter felt so stupid; he remembered that Steve hated being touched.

"S-Sorry," he said, devoting his complete attention to the ex-captain. He would have expected Steve to ignore him, but surprisingly, he was looking right at Peter.

His thoughts were nearly visible in his gaze. Peter began to pity the soldier–and he _knew_ he shouldn't, but he couldn't help himself– as he remembered that Steve wouldn't and couldn't speak. Not because of a grudge, but because he was told to. And with that look he gave, it was clear that he was _trying_ to communicate but couldn't, because Peter couldn't understand.

Peter knelt down to the side of the chair, "Hey, I'm sorry, 'kay? I wouldn't scare you, not on purpose. Not-None of us, not me, Mr. Stark, nor James wanna scare you on purpose. You're very brave, and we like you. So you're safe, 'kay? It's just that..." Peter let himself sink all the way down onto the carpets, "well, you're safe and all, you're just not okay-" he pressed his finger against his heart, " _here_. And we can't go to Brooklyn until we get you all checked up."

Steve's myopic form of understanding was depressing enough as is. But the shame written all over his face at Peter's explanation was heart wrenching. He just looked so vulnerable.

Peter tried forcing himself to not pity him. He balled his hands into fists, "So how's that sound, Captain? If you will let me work with you, you might just get better."

Steve nodded. His sadness was taciturn.

But Peter could just scarcely sense another emotion brewing within Steve's cold blue stare. It felt like hatred.

But it was slight. Peter could have mistaken the feeling for something else. Now wasn't the time to think about things like that, Peter had a job to fulfil. He just got his job back after five days of avoiding consequences: Peter was _not_ going to disappoint Mr. Stark this early.

Oh, that's right. Mr. Stark.

"Say, Captain Rogers?" Peter began, standing up, "My boss, Mr. Stark, is gonna be there in the room with us. Is that okay?"

…

"He won't touch you or anything, he'll just be around."

...

"I can ask him to leave if that's what you want."

Steve nodded.

"Okay, I will. You just have to work with me... Promise."

Steve nodded.

"Okay," he breathed, "Let's go be amazing."

* * *

Lieutenant Rhodes was seated at a downtown bar late into the evening. He was just taking some time off from his rather busy week. Even without having to deal with Tony's personal issues, Rhodey had his schedule nearly completely booked. He was just glad that he could buy himself a couple nightly escapes each week. Just sitting down and having a drink after work was relaxing.

The joint he was in wasn't crowded or empty. He was having a pleasant, comfortable evening having drinks and talking politics with other men at the bar. After making unharmful flirts with the bartender and then paying his bill, Rhodey decided it was time he headed home. Just as he stood from the barstool there was a familiar vibration in the breast pocket of his shirt; his phone was ringing.

Rhodey sat back down, pulled the phone out, and gazed at the caller ID.

Stark, Tony, it read. He answered the call and placed the device against his ear.

Rhodey got this strange feeling when the crisp metal of the cell phone made contact with his skin. It was like his entire body went ice cold, all at once. The sound of clattered commotion and hubbub coming from the cell phone was encouraging his hyper nerves.

"Tony?" he asked, "Tony are you okay? I got this weird feeling."

The clattered commotion sound continued for a little while with no comprehension whatsoever. But then Tony's flat, dry voice broke through.

 _"...We got a situation."_

"I think I figured that part out on my own," Rhodey replied, hiding his concern from his voice, "Tony, you know how I hate getting into people's troubles-"

 _"-yes! Yes I know about your stupid phobia of questions. Tell you what, ask no questions, just get over here. I think I need you."_

"Don't tell me it's the captain."

 _"He… He's involved. Yeah."_

"He's… involved."

 _"Yeah. Very, very, very, involved. Like-"_

There was an uproar of clamour in the background. The audio was filled with static and what additionally sounded like things falling over. There was rustling and shouting, it was unnerving.

"What the hell?!" Rhodey bellowed. The bartender was looking at him peculiarly, with concern. The other men at the bar were too, each with a different degree of cumbersome worry.

Rhodey flushed. Taking a sharp breath, he stormed out of the bar and headed for a nearby bench. He sat hurriedly, and shifted the cell phone to his other ear.

"Tony? Tony, what's going on? You're scaring me."

There was a silence.

"Tones?"

 _"Yeah. We're good here."_

"Huh?"

 _"Believe me, I'm as confused as you are. It's like these things go as fast as they come, amiright?"_

"I don't understand. What things? You need me, don't you?"

 _"Not anymore, I don't think–Oh no. Wait. No. Peter's crying…"_

"Wha-"

 _"Shit."_

"I am so con-"

 _"-You know, maybe you should get over here. Some weird things are going on."_

"...sure. Absolutely. I'll be there. When do you need me?"

 _"ASAP."_

Rhodey nodded, he was panicked and unsure, but he nodded, "Absolutely. I'm on my way now."

There was yet another silence on the other line. Rhodey held his mobile device with both hands now. He patiently waited for Tony to come back, but it took a long while.

 _"I think Steve's even more mad at me."_

"...It's okay, brother. We can get it sorted out together when I get there, okay?"

 _"Yeah but I think Steve locked us in."_

 _"What?"_

 _"In the mini-gym. Peter and I are locked in. This is fun."_

"Oh sweet Jesus," Rhodey stood from the bench and started bolting down the avenue. He ran towards the large empire Stark Industries building, but he wasn't going far. Rhodey was already losing most of his energy weaving through crowds.

"H-Hey, Tones," he said, running, "Listen, I'm on my way, I just-it'll take me a while."

 _"Chill. We'll probably be fine."_

"But you said-"

 _"Well, at least, Peter and I will be fine."_

"...I'm coming."

 _"Okay."_


	16. Unfair

**Author's Note: My sincere gratitude to a guest, "Pug in the Tub" for the delightful comment of joy. Whoever you are, you really made my day. So thank you, and enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

 **Unfair**

At least twenty minutes of uptight duration passed before there was the familiar click of the door handle unlocking. Tony ran to the door as Rhodey opened it. Before any words could leave the lieutenant's mouth, Tony embraced him with a tight hug.

Rhodey went stiff. His adrenaline had been roaring throughout his body for a while now, out of physical strain, concern, and even fear. Out of all the stunts Tony's pulled in his life, this one was the first to actually make Rhodey afraid. He'd run all across the city to Stark Industries as quickly as he could, and it felt so unnatural. He'd never before felt actual fear for his friend, only concern or pity. So running halfway across Broadway and Times Square with blood gushing in his ears and sweat dripping down his back, only to walk into a warm hug was more than unnerving.

Rhodey took a deep breath, and took a moment to calm himself. He tried letting himself relax into the hug. Tony didn't let his grip go; he was too anxious. He just hung there like a ragdoll.

"Thank you for your service, lieutenant," Tony said, his face buried in Rhodey's chest. Rhodey frowned, concerned, but didn't say anything. He patted Tony's shoulder as he looked around the miniature gymnasium.

He found that Peter was slouching on the bench, hands folded in his lap, with a towel around his shoulders. The kid looked beyond shaken. In fact, he could have resembled the situation he was in back when he first spoke of the horrifying visions.

Rhodey bit the inside of his cheek. He pulled Tony off his chest so that he could look at him.

"What the hell's going on? You two are not okay."

Tony slumped his shoulders into a shrug, "It was weird. I don't know what was going on, myself."

"Yes you did," Peter said from the bench.

Tony threw a glance at him over his shoulder, "Hey, Webhead, you can go home if you want."

Peter shook his head, "I need to make sure you get everything sorted out first."

Tony spun back to Rhodey, and pointed his finger to Peter, "I love that kid."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

"Tony-" Rhodey cut in, "You gotta tell me what happened. You just seem... not yourself."

There was a break in thought. But Tony broke it with a voice sinisterly flat, "Be completely honest, Rhodey. In your own, sincere opinion, tell me if I've been 'myself' since we got Steve back."

"Well, no. Not particularly."

"Not at all," Tony corrected, "I just feel like, I don't know. I feel like-"

"-Tony, when I walked past the living room, I saw upchuck all over your sofa... It reeked, man, did you really not clean it up yet? Or is it new?"

"Could be new. I haven't checked."

"Maybe the captain is sick?"

"He's sick in the head."

 _"Tony-"_

 _"Mr. Stark-"_

Tony was taken aback, "Hey. Guys. C'mon, relax. You know I love the guy. And you know he's sick. He's fucking demented."

Rhodey frowned, "Tony, where is he now?"

"In his bedroom, I think. And I think Peter's upset about that."

Peter huffed, he slung the towel off of his shoulders and onto the ground as he leaned back on the bench, "I'm not 'upset,' Mr. Stark, it's just that I keep telling you, he can't just be doing nothing all day."

"But I do that all the time!"

"Exactly. It's unhealthy."

"Rude."

"Sorry."

"Okay, I'm going with the kid on this one," Rhodey said.

"What? Rude."

"Tony, you're-"

"You are all so rude today."

"You sound like Stephanie from Full House."

"That's ru-"

"Tones."

After a while of pointlessly unprogressive attempts at discussion, Rhodey had to assert his position as leader and take charge of the situation.

He gave Steve a laptop–one of the many that Tony had sitting around for no particular reason- and set up a video chat. Within minutes, Deputy Captain James "Bucky" Barnes was onscreen, practically in tears. In all reality, it was saddening that Steve was unable to verbally communicate with him. Rhodey didn't understand how their conversation would play out, but he knew that talking to Bucky would at least keep Steve distracted and occupied for a long time.

Peter was supervising him. He didn't particularly like the idea, Rhodey noticed, when he was told that he would be taking care of Steve for the time being. Rhodey thought Peter would have been elated, but instead, he acted afraid of it. He just sat in the back of Steve's room, arms crossed, observing Steve but not speaking.

Rhodey left the two in the second bedroom while he and Tony decided to talk things out in the kitchen. At least they could agree on that. Tony was more calm when it was just the two of them.

Rhodey helped himself to a glass of water. He drank it as he sat down at the table. Tony took a seat across from him, and pulled out a box of animal-shaped crackers.

Rhodey smiled sadly, "I like your animal cookies."

"Thanks. Want one?"

"Why not? Sure."

"What animal? Tiger? Rhino? This other bizarre thing that I still haven't figured out?"

"How about a rhino?"

Tony fished his hand through the box and retrieved one. He slid it across the table. Rhodey said thanks and ate it.

"You know," Tony said, "I think the last male white rhino died recently."

Rhodey's mouth dropped, "No..."

"Yeah. Two females left. I think they saved some of his sperm though, so they can artificially grow some rhino babies. But he was old, probably not very fertile. It's probably not worth it."

"That's such a shame."

"Yeah. It is. I think I'd rather kill myself than just die," Tony said, staring out past oblivion. He shoveled a handful of animal crackers in his mouth and crunched slowly.

"Tony," Rhodey began, setting his glass of water down on the table, "tell me what happened. Please."

"Sure."

"Okay."

"..."

"..."

"What, like right now?"

"Yes, yes right now."

"Okay, um, so Peter was in charge of Steve's physical therapy so they were doing physical therapy stuff. And I don't know what... Well, at one point, I mean I don't really remember, but, um, anyway Peter had his hands near Steve's back, I think? Something like that. I don't know if he actually touched him or not, I just know Steve flipped out. Like, mega flipped out. He hyperventilated and everything."

"Oh," Rhodey sympathized, "He had a PTSD attack?"

Tony shrugged, "I don't know," he ate an animal cracker, "I think he thought that Peter was one of those big guys who brought him to me, after the Lost Dog poster was launched. Remember them? They were scary. I think they were in my nightmares, right alongside Simon Cowell judging me. Steve was acting like he had back then, with the scary dudes. Hey, what do you think those guys did with all the money, anyway? Probably something stupid."

"You should have called the cops on those guys," Rhodey said, thinking out his words carefully, "they were not supposed to be manhandling the captain like that."

Tony shrugged again. He didn't speak for a while. His eyes haven't stopped staring once.

"So," Rhodey pressed on, "What happened to Peter?"

"Oh, that. Steve hit him."

"He hit him?"

"Yeah. Poor guy. He was absolutely terrified."

"Peter was, or the captain?"

"Both," Tony ate an elephant shaped cracker, "Yeah so long story short, Steve freaked out and it freaked us out. And after I broke up the two, Steve just left. He went back to his room without saying anything."

"What, you didn't try to talk to him or anything?"

"What could I have possibly said? Steve hates me."

"Oh, Tony, he doesn't hate you."

"Coulda fooled me," he ate another animal cracker.

There was a beat.

"In the call, you told me Peter was crying," Rhodey stated, "was he?"

"Yeah," Tony said, "I think he was more shocked than in pain, you know? Like it scared him a little bit, but it didn't hurt him."

"But he cried."

"Yeah."

Rhodey hummed, "Yeah. I get it. Just an unsettling PTSD attack, right? Nothing worse."

"Nothing worse."

"...Tony, I'm worried for you."

"Me too."

"What?"

"I'm worried for me too. I just want Steve to be better."

"And I want you to be better, Tony," Rhodey reasoned, "I want you to be happy, granted. But I want you healthier. I miss the old Tony."

"I don't-"

"Stop it, you know what I mean."

Tony tilted the box, as to pour a plethora of animal crackers into his hand. But he tilted it too far, and all the crackers came piling out of the box and sliding to the floor. Only four Tony actually caught. He slammed the box down on the table in frustration.

"Damn it," he said, "I know I've been acting different. I know, you know, Peter knows, we all know. It's just… weird, I guess."

"Yes, yes your behaviour has become weird recently."

"Not me. Steve. He's been weird. I thought he would be, well, Steve, instead he's someone else and it's weird. I don't like it."

Rhodey frowned, "Oh, Tony. People don't really change."

"Yes they do. Steve did."

"No, no he didn't. He's just afraid, I guess."

"He shouldn't be afraid of me," Tony grumbled. He broke the animal crackers in his fist.

"Okay, afraid was the wrong word to use. How about 'closed-off?' He's only closed-off 'cause of his medical conditions, Tony. He'll get better. And when he does he'll be the same as he was before, right?"

"..."

"Tony?"

"'Closed-off' is two words. Idiot."

Rhodey felt annoyance prick at his temple, but he didn't express it. He kept his poker face.

"Tony," he began calmly, "how about we go see how Captain Rogers is doing right now? We can go check up on him."

"Sure."

The two rose from the table, Rhodey leading them towards the hall. He stopped and looked back to the fallen cardboard box, "You gon' want your animal crackers?"

"They're on the floor," Tony said, "Mama Stark said that anything on the floor is poisonous."

He took off down the hall before Rhodey. The lieutenant caught up and walked by his side.

"Mama Stark sounds like she was a fun mother," Rhodey said.

Tony shrugged, "She was pretty good."

He opened the door to the second guest bedroom. Peter hadn't moved from his seat in the back, arms still folded. And the man-in-question was hunched over the laptop, his face nearly touching against the screen. He was tracing Bucky's image through the video with his fingertips, slowly, brokenly. Tony couldn't be positive from where he was standing, but he thought he saw Steve's one eye red and watery. The scene was unbearable to watch.

Bucky was saying things through the video call, but the audio was scratchy; his words weren't definite. He was talking to Steve, naturally. But Steve was barely responding, he was only tracing the screen.

Steve winced every time his finger had to travel another direction across Bucky's face. And somehow, Tony knew that it wasn't only because of his developing arthritis.

Just standing there in the doorway, Tony felt something tug at his gut. Steve was still unresponsive, granted, but Steve was _feeling._

Steve hadn't felt anything for Tony since he was rescued. Nothing except anger, that is. And here he is now, feeling lonely and sad for somebody who was never there for him. This guy, Bucky, wasn't there in Afghanistan, and he's not here now in New York. And he's never been there to try to get Steve to eat. And he's never been there to give Steve his medication. And he's never been through living hell to try and make Steve feel safe, when all he gets in response are doors in the face.

But _Tony's_ been there! Tony's always been there to try to get Steve to eat. He's always been there to give Steve his medication. And every single day he wakes up to the Sun blaring through his window, screaming at him, reminding him of how every day will be a living hell of trying to make Steve feel safe. And all Tony gets are doors in the face.

Tony balled up his fists. He sat down in a seat beside Peter and rested his head against his arm. But he didn't say anything.

Peter didn't either. Instead, he just noticed that it was his cue; that he could leave now. And he did. He just stood up and walked out of the door without mentioning it. Rhodey did too.

But Tony remained grounded. He sat still and glared at the laptop in Steve's hands.

Steve was oblivious to Tony's presence. Or, if he was, he was just ignoring him. And Steve was doing a hell of a good job if he was only ignoring Tony, because he carried out in his one-sided conversation for nearly half an hour.

By then, Bucky was apologizing, saying he had to go, and that his free time was very limited because of his work. He was actually in tears at this point, just ranting out his (so-called) affections for Steve. Honestly, the tears just killed his manly factor. Tony had the fainted memory of referring to him as a 'white macho macho' guy. But that name was entirely out of context now.

Steve, on the other hand, was showing off far less emotion. He only wore a frown with watery, red eyes. Without waiting for Bucky to say more, Steve just moved the mouse to the X Button and closed the tab. He shut the laptop and set it aside.

Now did Steve finally notice that Tony was in the room. He looked at him for about two seconds, and then turned away. He wiped his eyes with the sleeves of his sweater, sniffling a little.

"Hi Steve," Tony said unexpectedly. He didn't mean to say it, and surprised himself. But, being Tony Stark, he just crossed his arms and went along with it.

Steve stayed as he was, with his back facing Tony.

Tony bit back a grimace, "Hey, buddy, just wanted to point something out to you. I know you're upset about, you know, me calling you a baby, but don't you think I deserve at least a little bit of credit?"

Steve didn't move. So Tony raised his voice.

"And I think you're crediting Mr. Man-bun a little too much. I've certainly done better than him."

Steve spun around now, offended. But Tony wasn't done; and Steve couldn't speak, so Tony couldn't be stopped.

"Sure, he's never called you a baby. But he hasn't been doing everything I have. And I think I deserve a little more credit. That's all."

Steve glared with his one good eye. Since he was unable to talk, he noticed this was a losing battle. The disappointment made him physically turn away from Tony. He slumped over, and crossed his arms, back to Tony.

"Steve, come on," Tony pressed, "You know I like you, don't you? You know I'd do anything for you, and I do. Every day I put forth a lotta effort to help you, but you just get sad."

Steve didn't react.

"It makes me sad when you're sad."

Steve still didn't react.

"Remember when you used to like me?" Tony inquired, accusation breaking into his tone, "You did once. You actually cared. Don't tell me you don't remember. You said it, you said it was their goal to make us remember every day of that hell. I remember. I know you remember. You were like the goddamn Albert Einstein on knowing things. You know."

Steve shook his head. He wasn't replying to Tony. He was shaking his head continuously, obsessively; like he was scared.

"We can talk, if you want, you know. About Afghanis-"

"Shut up."

Tony gulped. He hadn't said that. Steve said it.

He abruptly scanned the soldier for signs of pain or sickness, in a rushed panic. But all he saw off of Steve was his undying anger. The pure hatred for Tony reeked off of him. His blue glare was evident.

Tony felt himself shrink back into his spine, "Steve? Did you just…"

"I said _shut up!"_ Steve screamed. He grabbed a pillow from the bed and chucked it at Tony's head. Being only a pillow, it bounced off and went unnoticed. But Tony's jaw dropped anyway.

"Steve… you're not, you know you're not-"

 _"-Shut up!"_ Steve screeched at the top of his withered lungs. He latched his hands over his ears as he screamed, "Shut up! Shut up! _Shut up!"_

Tony hurried off of the bed. He stood with his hands up, visible.

"Steve. Steve, calm down okay? It's okay. You're fine."

He tried approaching Steve slowly, but Steve moved away opposite him. They circled each other, Steve trying to get away and Tony trying to approach him. Steve had to jump on top of a stool just to stand clear of him.

"Steve, you're being ridiculous."

Steve threw a flower pot. It didn't hit Tony, in fact it went nowhere near him, and crashed into the door on the other side of the room.

Tony's gaze followed to pot until it broke against the door.

"That was three thousand dollars," he said, "Steve, babe, you're being absolutely ridiculous."

 _"Shut up!"_ he screamed once more.

"No!" Tony defied, raising his forefinger, "You shut up," he lowered his hand as he tried to keep himself together. He had to keep Steve here. He wasn't going to lose him just yet, "I don't think you had any reason to get angry," he explained, "I simply stated that I deserve better that what you're giving me."

"I'm not being _ridiculous!"_

"Well, screaming like a banshee when you're supposed to be silent and jumping around on millions of dollars worth of furniture when you have a sprained ankle kinda qualifies."

Steve let out a screech without words, just a sound. He tightened his hands over his ears even more, so much so that his face was turning red.

"God _dammit,_ Steve! You really just don't get it, do you?!" Tony fought back, "I have tried to love you, Steve. There. I said it. I've tried to keep you healthy. And keep you safe. And keep you shielded. But you, you treat it like it's nothing. You treat everything here and everything back with Yinsen like nothing! You act like you're unphased, like you're not afraid and like you're not thankful for what I've done for you! Why are you taking all of this for granted? Acting all mighty and wise, pretending you don't give a crap about anything. I hate how you think there's a some reasoning behind everything. I hate how you think you're fine when you're so sick, Steve! You're not okay! I hate how you think everything will be okay, nothing is okay, we are not going to be okay! I need someone who accepts reality and help me through this! Not some disabled dreamer who can't…"

Tony caught himself just in the nick of time. He clasped his hand over his mouth. He looked to Steve, who was still standing on the stool, possessing the same anger.

"I said that before, didn't I?" Tony asked, though he already knew the answer. His tone had never been flatter, "Three years ago. When we were in the desert."

Steve was unphased. He had his hands over his ears, but he was distinctly listening, Tony could tell. But his expression was unrecognizable. He was both confusing and confused, frightening and frightened at the same time.

"Steve," Tony began, his heart beating irregularly, "You don't remember that day, do you?"

Steve shook his head. He lowered his hands to his sides.

Tony's throat made a squirmish noise, "Steve, do you know who I am?"

Steve didn't move.

"Steve. Do you know who I am?"

"..."

"Steve."

Steve looked like he wanted to fall off the stool and die.

 _"Tell me who I am! Now! Tell me who I am!"_

"...I couldn't," Steve said raspily, "I don't know."

Tony stood still for a long, long time. Then, he shovelled his hands into his pockets, gave a curt nod to Steve, and then left the room, closing the door behind him.

Within mere moments, Peter was at his side.

"Mr. Stark! I-I-We heard screaming! I think I heard glass break, are you alright? Are you okay?" Peter spurred through his quick speech, all the while checking his boss for injuries and fussing over his clothing.

But Tony didn't stop to chat. In fact, he didn't stop at all. Even with Peter flitting all around him, checking and monitoring, Tony kept walking. He walked, slowly but not with ease, all the way to his kitchen.

Rhodey was seated at the table, he stood as Tony entered.

"Tony, are you alright? What the hell-"

Tony didn't heed Rhodey. He went all the way around him, holding his hand up to shut Rhodey up.

Tony didn't stop moving. He walked straight to his refrigerator, pulled out a beer, and drank the whole thing without stopping. Rhodey and Peter stilled. They clearly had no idea what to do.

Honestly, Tony didn't know what to do either. Nothing besides taking the rest of the beer pack, lying down on the kitchen floor, and drinking until he passed out. There was nothing better to do, anyway.


	17. Drunk Unconscious Dead

**Drunk-Unconscious-Dead**

In approximately five billion years, the hydrogen within the Sun's core will dissipate. By this stage in its life, the Sun would have already evolved into a spacious, yet weak, red giant. Once the hydrogen runs out, there will be nothing left to burn for nuclear fusion, so the Sun will die. The emitted poisonous gases will take eight minutes to reach Earth.

For whatever reason, Steve never forgot that lecture from science class. He had randomly remembered that fact since he left high school. He hadn't graduated, but dropped out early, so that he could join the military. His JROTC coach had perfectly allowed it, having said that Steve excelled in physical attributes and military coda far better than any other students.

Steve's friend, Bucky, was older than him; he graduated the same year Steve dropped out. Steve didn't have anywhere to go, since his mother passed away the same year he left school, so he moved in with Bucky. They lived together for a while, in a Brooklyn apartment near a community baseball park. They were both privates at an army base not too far from their apartment. They lived so close, in fact, that they were allowed to just walk home, rather than live on the base. That was a privilege that was more special than anything.

But, being excellent in all possible areas in the military, Steve got promoted, and promoted, and promoted, so much quicker than any man had ever done at the base before. Within only a few years, he was already captain.

And being captain, he didn't go home much anymore. He eventually gave all of his rights over the apartment back to Bucky. But Steve still kept the address on his dog tags; he was too caught up in his work to care about changing it.

But he didn't completely ignore Bucky. In fact, he gave him all the time he could. Bucky was his rock. Steve took the liberty of promoting him to deputy.

A couple years later, the US government started a new project: the Second Howling Commandos. This project was to begin in Brooklyn. So who better to lead the SHC than Captain Steven Grant Rogers? The Second Howling Commandos was to travel to the Middle East, handling special projects in the War on Terrorism.

And Steve was ready to lead his troop through anything.

He didn't remember much about the SCH's first trip to Afghanistan. He remembered calling for retreat, and getting bashed in the head. He knew he was done and over with, he _knew;_ but he kept calling retreat over and over again, so that everyone else would have a chance.

His head had been hurting so badly, he couldn't tell if his orders were being obeyed or not. The only thing he was aware of was the swarm of enemies circling him. His temples were pounding, he could barely think. He only knew to do one thing; he opened the breast pocket on his uniform and took a suicide pill.

Just before he dropped to his feet, he saw Bucky running towards him through the crowd of enemies. He tried to smile at him, but something hit the back of his head once more. Then everything went black.

He woke in a dark area, slung over a pile of metal scraps. The walls were rounded and forged of stone, the floors were only sand, and there was little light. As his eyes adjusted, he made out the faint image of a man. The man was looking at him in the most peculiar fashion.

Their gazes met, and Steve asked something about his dog tags.

The man had answered back. He wore them around his neck, and started to take them off.

Steve held up his hand to take them, but relapsed in pain. His arm dropped down to his side out of exhaustion, and he hissed. His hand hurt like hell, and as he clenched it against his ribs, he realized with horror that everything else was in pain too.

Oh who cares. The man can keep the dog tags, the address was out of date anyway. Steve could always go get new ones.

Over time, Steve learned that he could move his head, even though the rest of his body remained stationary. The man grew melancholy from his intolerable pity, which, frankly, Steve didn't appreciate.

But on the opposite spectrum, Steve forwent imperceptibility; he was in a state of dumb ignorance. No matter what torture-both physical and mental- the soldier endured, he persisted in being unaffected. The man should have admired this, but instead, he went on in his pity for the soldier.

Steve ignored it. He didn't blame the man's worry. He had every right to worry. But that didn't stop Steve from wanting to help him.

Steve told stories to pass the time, and to keep the man occupied. The man never replied to any stories, memories, philosophies, or virtually anything at all. He remained dormant, gruffed a few times, and watched Steve wordlessly.

And with no explanation, the man eventually grew angry with Steve. There was no definite reason for his anger, it was neither plausible nor acceptable. Steve was permanently friendly; he gave no reason for resentment. And yet, the man became furious with him.

But Steve never let that shut him up.

 _Are you in pain?_ he once asked.

 _The Sun hurts my eyes_ , was all the man replied.

 _Don't worry. It won't be here long._

 _What won't?_

 _The Sun_ , the soldier said, _It's going to rain later. I can tell. My back is hurting._

The man sat next to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. He muttered something inaudible. The soldier looked up with a twinkle in his open eye, and began to speak; he gave a message, _When the Sun dies, Earth will have eight minutes to live. It would take eight minutes for the vapors and gases to actually reach Earth. There would be a small window of time for people to just live. They would have the time to hug and kiss each other, to say goodbye, to confess crushes, and to just hold each other. It would be the most peaceful time of their deaths._

Steve smiled, even though a tear slipped down his sunken cheek, _I would give anything for an eight minute sanctuary right now._

And then the man was there holding him, protecting him. Steve tried not to give in, he _wouldn't_ give him, he was captain, he wouldn't–He was already crying. But this man– he didn't judge. He understood.

The man's name was Tony.

 _Steve! Steve, wake up! Please!_

It was raining heavily. The clouds, perniciously dark grey, were emitting buckets and buckets of rain. The occasional lightning bolt sent the troops running around in idiocracy, packing up supplies and securing weaponry.

Tony had taken his cuffing hand off the soldier's abused mouth. He set down his other hand as well. He looked his friend straight in the eye.

 _I have a plan._

 _How so?_

 _We have to leave. We have to leave now. Now is our only chance. My plan… it's the Mark, i-it's capable of so much. We can escape, a-a-and we can kill as many Afghans as we want. And we can make it out of here, just you and me._

 _We can go home?_

 _We can. We can, I just said so. Weren't you-weren't you listening? The Mark, it can-_ Tony stopped, his eyes widening.

The soldier's breathing became uneven, _What?_

Tony placed his head down between his thighs, wrapping his arms around his legs, in a little ball. He shook his head, _Oh no,_ he muttered, _no._

 _What?_

 _I only made one Mark._

 _Is the Mark that iron man over there?_ he had asked; he had been pointing to the lumpy figure beneath the plastic tarp.

Tony nodded.

 _Is he heavy?_ he then asked.

Tony lifted his head to meet the soldier's gaze. He was confused and oblivious. He nodded.

 _Then we don't need two Marks. I'm not.._ for the first time since his captivity in the cave, Steve was embarrassed, _I'm not capable of lifting anything heavy right now._

Steve reached around the Mark, feeling around the other scrap metals, until he finally pulled out a large, round dish. He examined it awhile, and then braced it against his arm, using his jacket sleeves to tie it. He gave his invention a little wave through the air.

 _Look,_ he had said, _I have a shield. And you have your iron man._

The only memories of this day he can be sure of were fuzzy and muted. He remembers stumbling along after the Mark, bullets softly tapping the metal of the suit and shield. He had felt so weak, on the verge of fainting or vomiting; or both. Somewhere along the line, Tony grabbed his arm, urging him forward with one hand, blasting everything he could with his other hand.

Then there was the tug, followed by the weightless tingling of his arm. Steve had been on the ground, no longer holding his shield but an arm of the Mark.

Then there were no more bullets, no more running. They were far away. It was still raining. Tony and Steve were laying a little ways away from each other, but they didn't move. They hadn't the strength to do so.

The Mark had died overnight; completely destroyed, having been pierced by bullets and worn down by the sinister Afghan weather. The poor machine had been blown to smithereens.

 _No more Iron Man._

Everything was blurred. The only pieces of memorabilia that remained were without sound, and without reason. Steve didn't understand these faint memories. He didn't know what they were or what they meant or why they happened. Everything hurt.

He only remembered feeling proud of walking across a sand dune, falling down after lifting a scrap of metal, sand being slung into his eyes, a man screaming at him, then kissing him, and then screaming at him all over again.

The man wasn't there anymore. He left after insulting him. For reasons Steve couldn't remember, he stood up and tried to go after him. But he could barely move, he toppled all over himself, falling into scorching hot sand every time. The more he fell down, the less he could move. The Sun was tearing his skin away and the sand was blinding him. His own body was betraying him, he couldn't bring himself to get up.

He woke up in a tent a couple weeks later. Young people with fair skin and baseball caps were pressing damp cloths to his injuries. They were Christian missionaries, it seemed. They looked barely out of high school. Steve never asked, he only guessed.

He never spoke to them, nor any of the other patients they pulled in from the desert. He just sat on his cot, without reason.

They dressed him in oversized clothes; a white t-shirt that went down past his knees, and jeans that looked like they were fetched from a gutter. His uniform was nowhere to be found. He had a strange memory of a metal chain necklace with tags, but he didn't see that anywhere either.

They fed him slum that tasted like it came from public school cafeterias. Breakfast was always fruit and sour milk. Lunch was always processed meat on stale buns. Dinner was always too watery, even if it was burnt. But Steve didn't complain. He ate what he could. And he liked the taste of anything that he didn't vomit back up.

After a while of detainment, they sent him to a rehab facility, about a three day drive away from the camp, in an actual city. The facility was a constructed building, with walls and windows and doors; things that Steve nearly forgot existed. There were doctors there, doctors who told him things he couldn't understand; they weren't speaking his tongue.

So he sat still on plastic mats and stools, and let them prod him with sticks and shove drugs down his mouth. They experimented on his left eye, then they gave him a patch. The pain in his cuts diminished, and he learned to stand up and walk once more.

They let him go after a while. But he had nowhere to go. He didn't even know where he was. He couldn't read any of the signs, and he didn't have any money besides some change passerbys donated him. So he took refuge where he could, on the streets, out of the way.

Some man gave him some scraps weekly. This man showed up every seven days, walking to work after breakfast. He clearly wasn't native to the city; his skin was white and he spoke English. Steve didn't remember his real name; he only called the man Doctor Banner, or Dr. B. But he never spoke with Dr. B., just took the crusts of his sandwich or the core of his apple each day.

But that all changed. Doctor B. was angry. He marched right up to Steve, who at the time had been sleeping under a bench, grabbed him by the arm, and forced him down the street. Steve had tried fighting him off, but his movements had been uncoordinated and weak. He was practically dragged away.

Doctor B. took him on a plane. It was small, stuffy, and crowded. But it was a _plane._

 _I'm taking you to America,_ Dr. B. eventually said, halfway through the flight. Steve hadn't reacted, because he frankly didn't feel like there was anything worth a real reaction. Just migration from one bottomless trench to another.

Steve didn't pinpoint exactly where they stayed in America. Dr. B. never actually told him. He just stayed in a hotel room, where Dr. B left during the days and came back at night. So all day, Steve was by himself, with room service and a bathroom.

He never ordered food; he didn't know how to operate the phone. And on the nights it took longer for Dr. B. to come home, Steve would sneak into the washroom and take one bar of soap.

He always hid them under his pillow, so that Dr. B. wouldn't find them. They were _his_ soaps. He wasn't going to live in fear for his health because of lack of hygiene ever again, because he had soap now, and no one was going to take them from him.

And on one particular night, one specific night that Dr. B. was late, Steve found himself burying yet another soap bar under his pillow. He now had half a dozen, all untouched.

After securing the six bars under his pillow, Steve headed to his intimate, revered spot in the hotel room: the little chair by the window sill. Here was where he waited all day, each day, for Doctor Banner's return from work.

And as he waited, staring out past the window, Steve saw something peculiar. Something so awful that it took him a while to determine if what he was seeing was actually real. A group of young men, none of any specific prejudice, were assembled together, physically mistreating a woman. One held her arms behind her back and against his chest, so she wouldn't move, even as she fought back. The other two were occupied in the contents of her purse, joshing her off and throwing vulgar gropes her way.

Steve stood straight up from his chair.

He bolted for the door, but Dr. B. stood there with it wide open. He dropped his briefcase and pressed his hands back against Steve.

 _H-Hey!_ he exclaimed, confused and baffled, _What are you–_

 _Why did you bring me here?!_ Steve asked, pushing back against the doctor, _It's all the same here, it's all like–_

He didn't finish. He just shoved Doctor Banner to the ground and ran out of the hotel. He went straight for the three men and the woman, but they were gone. They had left. He had been too late.

The only piece left of the scene was the woman's tube of lipstick. It must have fallen out of her purse as she was robbed.

Steve stood there in the middle of the sidewalk, clutching the lipstick tube, lost and confused..

He pressed a hand to his temple. This felt wrong. He didn't feel right, he just felt wrong. It felt like-

...Another year passed and Steve found himself in no improvement. He slept under the bleachers of a baseball park, eating the scraps that fell from the seats. At night, large, burly men often beat him, for the sake of sharing a few laughs.

He didn't mind it, not even when they sprained his ankle. He never fought back. At least, he doesn't remember ever fighting back. His memory was falling askew. Yes, he was aware that his past was slipping away from him, but he didn't fight it. He had done enough fighting.

But there was one day he did fight back, or at least tried fighting back. He was very injured. And he was personally offended when the men started dragging him away from the baseball park. The baseball park was his home.

He trashed and thrashed, physically ruining himself, trying to fight back, but his moves were without dignity. The men outranked him in every way possible.

They took him to a large skyscraper, dragging him and fighting back against him the whole time.

And then there was a peace. There was the leaving of the men, and a silence in the workspace. Employees were running everywhere, but Steve didn't understand why. And then there was a man.

A man? He was barely a man. Only a distinctive blur that swam out amongst the other faded surroundings. Even the man himself was blurry. There was nothing about him that Steve could see well, or particularly comprehend. And yet the man was unique: he was going to Steve. While all the others were running away, he was approaching him.

Steve noticed this, and it struck him terribly; he came tumbling down to all fours on the flooring. He caved in on himself, shaking. Why was he shaking? Was he afraid? He needed to get out of here. He needed to get away from those men. He needed to-

 _Hi, Steve_ , the man said. For whatever reason, those words were loud and clear. They brought him back to focus, focus that he didn't know he was losing.

But... Steve. That name sounded familiar.

 _I missed you,_ the man went on, his concealed tone silencing the clamour around them, _Do you remember me?_

A shudder ran through his spine.

That voice.

 _Oh my god,_ was the only thing he piped out. He froze up so sternly, all out of panic and anxiety so viciously colliding. His lungs were contracting, and his throat going dry. It felt like he was going to collapse, or die, or both.

Who was this man? Why did his voice sound familiar? Why did he bring him here? What was he going to do to him? Was he going to kill him?

He was so afraid. Oh he was _so afraid._ He didn't know where he was or who this man was. He clenched up, caving in on himself.

The man's expression hasn't changed. He was unreadable. But he stood up, helped the latter up, and pulled him down the hall.

The man took him to his home, and gave him a room to himself. There were clothes in the closet, sheets on the bed, paper on the desks, and even a bathroom with soaps galore.

The man offered him food, but he never ate any. The dishes offered were always too lavish, too pricey. He couldn't touch the food, it didn't feel right. He felt like he couldn't touch it, and if he did, he would be wronging the dinner, offending it. The man didn't rush him. He didn't force feed him, just sat still.

The man gave him medications too. He didn't know what the medications were for, but the man insisted that he take them. He did take them sometimes, but not often. They didn't seem to do him anything good.

The man often lay around in front of a television screen. He didn't try conversation with him, unless he really wanted to. The man told him he shouldn't speak, anyway. So there wasn't a point in trying to talk.

Except at the times they fought. When the man insulted all that he couldn't do, all that he _wanted_ do on his own but _couldn't,_ those were the times when he fought back. And he won; his ragged speech and defensiveness convinced the man to stand down by some strange miracle. Somehow, the man always stood down.

Except for today.

Yes, he did technically stand down and walk away. But that _look_ that the man gave just before he left, as he shook his head and narrowed his gaze, was awful. It was terrifying. He may have walked away, but he _won._ And they both knew it.

That man. Where had he heard that voice?

* * *

"Hey, wanna watch Sesame Street?" Tony asked. He laid face up on the kitchen floor, staring at the ceiling.

Peter, who was sitting at the table, jumped in his seat, "Mr. Stark! You're awake!"

"Yup," Tony brought a bottle to his mouth, but it was empty. He dropped it back onto the floor.

"Just 'cause I ain't moving don't mean I'm dead," he said, grumbling a little as he sat up. His back was stiff, so he gave it a few stretches, "Rhodey learned that 'bout me a long time ago. Right Lulu?"

Rhodey closed his computer. He stared at him in frustration, "Lulu. Really? Where'd _that_ one come from?"

"Lieutenant. Lulu. I thought it'd be cute."

"It's not. It's really, really not."

"I didn't think you were dead, for the record," Peter said. He offered his boss a hand to pull him up, "I just thought you got drunk and went unconscious."

"With Tony, what's the difference?" Rhodey mumbled, arms crossed over his chest.

Tony gave him a look.

He stood up, with Peter's help, and patted him on the shoulder. As Tony got an idea, he composed himself, "Say, Rhodey, do you think Steve would like to get drunk-unconscious-dead with me? We can have a party for two!"

Rhodey's jaw dropped, "You're serious."

"Why not? I think it's a pretty good way to make up after a cat fight. He probably needs a shot or two. I know I do."

"When do you not?" Rhodey muttered.

"Mr. Stark?" Peter cut in, "Isn't that, like, super dangerous for him, since he's on medication?"

Tony shrugged, "I can ask."

"No, I think he needs-"

"C'mon," Tony drawled, already walking backwards to the second guest bedroom with his arms up proudly, "Steve always forgives me. It's in his blood. We'll have a great time, and forget this ever even happened."

"Mr. Stark, maybe you shouldn't–"

"-Pete. Really. I got this, okay?" he was getting defensive now. And the junior assistant stood down. Tony wordlessly thanked him, and went on to the second guest bedroom.

He knocked on the door.

He knocked again.

"Steve?"

He knocked again.

"Hey does getting drunk sound good right about now?"

He pressed his face against the door and knocked, "Do you wanna build a snowman?"

He knocked again.

"Hey, Steve, whatever happened to my Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer socks? I wear I _just_ had them on and now they're gone."

There was a silence.

"Hey buddy? You okay in there?"

He knocked again. Something sunk in his stomach.

"Holy shit," he said without realizing it. Then, he turned the door handle and pushed open.

He screamed.

* * *

The funeral was held a week later.

It surprised Tony how many people actually showed up. Their party room was nearly packed. People were everywhere, even now, a whole hour before the service. They were all dressed in black, talking in hushed voices and holding flutes of champagne.

For the first time in his life, Tony didn't want champagne.

Just before the last drinks were served, Doctor Romanoff went over to Tony. She didn't say anything. Tony barely recognized her; her sharp green eyes had gone dull and dead.

She slapped him across the cheek, tears pricking her eyes. And then she left. Tony didn't care.

Tony sat on a folding chair in the front of the room, back towards the attendants, and front towards the coffin. It was a beautiful coffin. It was mahogany with the American flag draped over the side. He didn't bother to look inside, he chose to just sit and think about things.

There was a tentative tap on his shoulder.

Tony spun around, and relaxed, "Oh. Hi Webhead."

"Hi," Peter said, he sat down next to his boss. He offered him a cup of water.

Tony shook his head.

"Good funeral," Peter said, trying to break the tension, "Well _not good,_ but, you know."

"Yeah. I know."

"It's great how many people came."

Tony nodded, "Yeah. I'm surprised."

"...I brought my aunt and uncle. They're over there, see?"

"Good."

"...It's a shame Deputy Captain Barnes couldn't make it," Peter added sympathetically.

"Who?"

"Bucky. He got deported. Remember?"

"Oh yeah," Tony said, slouching, "Did, uh, did the other dude..?"

"Sargent Wilson is here," Peter finished.

He pointed to the other side of the room, where Rhodey and Sam spoke quietly to one another. Rhodey looked absolutely miserable.

Tony hummed. He looked back to the coffin.

Peter adjusted in his seat, like he was considering leaving. But he stayed. He tapped the rim of the water cup nervously.

"Mr. Stark?"

"What."

"I just–I need to know. He didn't–He–Was… Was it suicide, or-"

Tony didn't think before answering.

"I don't know. Could've been. Maybe not. He wasn't in the right mind. Took a lot of pills. Same old story."

Peter's hand on Tony's shoulder squeezed tightly, and then released. Peter's voice broke, "Oh God, Mr. Stark, I'm so sorry."

Tony took the water from Peter's grip and took a long sip. He dropped the plastic cup to the floor.

"God isn't real, Peter," Tony said.

"Mr. Stark, that's not–" he shut himself up, "Sure. Okay."

From the back of the party room, there was a familiar quick clicking of heels on the tiled floor. Pepper Potts hurried across the room, purse and gifts dangling off her arms. She was dressed in a tight black coat, with a belt around her middle.

She didn't stop to drop her bags before she hugged Tony. She held his face against her shoulder, and hugged tightly. Tony could feel her heartbeat against his chest.

Pepper finally pulled back, holding his shoulders still. She wasn't even wearing any makeup.

"Oh my God, Tony, I'm so sorry," she said, barely louder than a whisper, "I'm so sorry."

"You came back."

"Yes, Tony," she forced a smile, "Yes, _yes,_ I came back. I came as soon as I heard. I just couldn't leave you, I just–Tony, I'm so sorry."

"Me too."

"I'm gonna get some more water," Peter said as he stood up and left. But he never did come back with the water, he stayed in the back of the room with his aunt and uncle.

But Pepper stayed. She gave him a few gifts, but he set them under his chair for later. She stayed sitting beside him the whole time.

Even during the service, she held his hand and let him rest his head on her shoulder. They watched together as Steve's coffin descended six feet deep. And they watched as the service boys packed the hole densely, completely burying Steve underground.

Tony didn't move once.

"Pepper."

"Yes, Tony? What is it?"

"I don't understand."

"Don't understand... what?"

"I helped him before," Tony said gaze not breaking, "back then. You know. But I couldn't help him just now. Why couldn't I, when I've done it before?"

Pepper was silent for a long time. But then she sniffed, dabbed her eyes with crumpled tissue, and replied.

"Because he was helping you before. You worked together, back then. But this time..."

Tony turned back to the newly laid soil atop the bright green grass, "Can I have a moment?"

"Oh," she said, "Oh yes, yes of course. Sure, I um-" she kissed his cheek, softly, gently. And then she gave him another hug, which he barely registered, and went back inside the party room.

As Tony stared, he realized with undeniable horror that he had _counted_. He counted how long it took the service boys to bury Steve's body: four hundred and seventy eight seconds. Otherwise known as seven minutes and fifty eight seconds.

Tony swallowed, "I guess he never got his eight minutes sanctuary after all."


End file.
